


What Might Have Been

by Aethelflaed



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Adam Young Still Has Powers (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Antichrist Adam Young (Good Omens), Apocalypse, Arthurian, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley are Adam Young's Godparents (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Flaming Sword (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bad Angel Gabriel (Good Omens), But also, Camelot, Canon Compliant, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Divergent Timelines, Dream Communication, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), Good Omens Celebration 2020, Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Language, Morning Kisses, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV Outsider, Possible Character Death, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Crucifixion of Jesus 33 AD (Good Omens), Scene: Flood in Mesopotamia 3004 BC (Good Omens), Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Scene: Globe Theatre 1601 (Good Omens), Scene: Kingdom of Wessex 537 AD (Good Omens), Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), Scene: Rome 41 AD (Good Omens), Sleepy Cuddles, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Starvation, The M25 Motorway, Threats of Violence, Torture, not graphic but it's there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 53,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24288109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: Three and a half years after the Apocalypse, something goes very wrong.--Aziraphale and Crowley have finally achieved the dream: blissful retirement to a cottage in the South Downs, a life of morning cuddles and quiet gardens.But all this is interrupted when...something...opens in the South Downs. Sent by his former employers to investigate, Aziraphale finds himself trapped in a world as familiar as it is terrifying, where the apocalypse was never stopped, and where a much darker story lurks below the surface.--Posted from the "Themes" prompts for the Good Omens Celebration 2020. Tags will be updated as the story proceeds.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Adam Young (Good Omens)
Comments: 165
Kudos: 88
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins in spring, a little more than three and a half years after the Apocalypse.
> 
> (Note: I intended each prompt to be a *short* scene, but as you will see, they start adding up quickly...)

Aziraphale woke first, as he always did. If you could call it waking; he didn’t so much sleep as meditate.

Well. Meditating implied more spiritual thoughts, and that wasn’t where his mind went these days.

He slowly drifted, mind sliding across the simple physical sensations, the soft cotton pillow against his cheek, the warm arms wrapped around his middle, the breath on the back of his neck.

But the birds had started singing outside. It was time to rise.

Aziraphale blinked his eyes open and looked at the wafting blue curtains of their bedroom. _Their_ bedroom. It seemed impossible that it had finally happened, after all the fear and uncertainty of the last few years, the last many years, all the years really…now they were here.

Oh, they’d been in the cottage for months, but Aziraphale was in no rush to get used to this: the sun through the little tree outside the window, the flower-sweet smell of the garden below, the way Crowley’s fingers tensed and loosened on the front of his shirt, like a cat kneading in its sleep.

He turned over, the thin arms loosening just enough to let him face Crowley’ sleeping form.

“Good morning, dear,” he whispered.

“Nnnnh. S’not. S’bad.” The arms tightened again, pulling Aziraphale close, as Crowley buried his face in the tartan flannel. “Nothin’ good before nine ‘r ten. Sleep, Angel.”

“My dear! We’ve already missed the sunrise. You’ll sleep the day away.”

“Good.” Crowley hooked a leg around Aziraphale’s trying to pull him closer. “Best day.”

Aziraphale leaned in and brushed a kiss on his lips. Crowley’s were still too soft, too tired from sleep, but that made them all the sweeter. “Come on, dear.” Another kiss. “There’s so much to do. We can go for a walk again. Remember that little river we found? Or drive down to the seaside. Picnic, a little swimming.”

“You don’ ev’n have a swimm’n costume,” Crowley reminded him lazily.

“No,” Aziraphale conceded with a grin. “I don’t.”

“Hmm,” Crowley hummed against his throat. “You think you can tempt me like that?”

“Usually works.” Aziraphale tried to sit up, but Crowley’s arms constricted. “Unhand me, Foul Fiend!”

“Never.” Crowley twisted close, burrowing against Aziraphale. “In my power now. Never ‘scape. Muhaha an’ all that.”

Aziraphale kissed the top of his head. “Alright then. What if I go make us breakfast?”

For the first time, one golden eye cracked open, just a gleam of color. “Mmmh. No eggs. Set the cottage on fire again. Muffins ‘r nice.”

Aziraphale kissed his nose one last time. “Muffins it is.”

When he finally worked himself free, Aziraphale tucked the quilt back over Crowley and ran a hand along his back with a fond smile. “See you soon, dear.”


	2. Contrast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Continuation of chapter 1, just wanted to make sure we got our fill of domestic fluff before the plot started.)

Light and shadow. Black and white. Minimalism and…well… _cluttered tartan nightmare,_ as Crowley liked to say.

Angel and demon.

Two lives that shouldn’t blend, that should be so very different. Brought together here, in a cottage in the South Downs.

No, not here. They’d been brought inexorably together, century by century, long before they ever arrived. Little bits of each twisting about the other’s heart.

The deep black carpet running down the stairs, trimmed with red and bits of gold, while above it hung paintings of landscapes and photographs of friends. Crowley said no one hung pictures along stairs anymore, but Aziraphale had always wanted to, so why shouldn’t he?

At the base of the stairs, the deep wood floor of the dining room, vaulted ceiling and knotty beams; next to it, the softly carpeted sitting room, soft plush sofa and chairs before the sleek, modern coffee table and fancy television that seemed to be missing its back half. Beyond that, the kitchen, modern and gleaming like something from a science-fiction film, cluttered with kitchy knick-knacks Aziraphale had picked up at second hand shops. Plants in every windowsill, in planters decorated with tartan ribbon.

Before walking to the kitchen, Aziraphale slipped over to the back door, stepping out onto the porch to take a deep breath of warm spring air.

The flowers were coming up, neat rows of them along carefully laid stone paths that branched and rejoined all the way down to the duck pond, the spaces in between taken up by carefully trimmed bushes and occasional trees (mostly apple).

All except the little corner Aziraphale had claimed for himself. He’d simply taken one of everything he liked in the greenhouse – blackberries, tulips, strawberries, snowdrops, cowslips, and some tomato plants, lumped them all together and waited to see what happened.

Crowley had laughed, but here they were all growing together in delightful harmony.

Aziraphale stroked the blue-violet blossoms of the bluebells, felt the little roots struggling deeper into the shallow soil, brushing along the chalk bedrock below. “You’re doing wonderfully,” he whispered to it. “I’m very proud of you.” The flower grew just a little straighter.

He checked the berries, but as Crowley had repeatedly told him, it was far too early in the year for any fruit. Ah, well, he could make banana muffins instead, he supposed.

One last pause to run his fingers across the green stems of the Chrysanthemums. “I can’t wait to meet you,” he murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One change from the Tumblr version: after chatting with someone about the wildflowers of the South Downs, I had Aziraphale talk to bluebells in his garden. I feel these are a very "Aziraphale" flower (moreso than the tulips I'd originally had). They can't grow in thinner soils due to needing deep roots, but Aziraphale believes in them and they don't want to disappoint!


	3. Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Plot starts now!)

Humming to himself, Aziraphale stepped into the kitchen. He’d need flour, oil, vanilla, bananas of course, and perhaps chocolate…oh, no, there was that new recipe he’d read for honey-sweetened banana muffins, with a dash of maple. Wouldn’t that make a nice surprise?

He was so distracted, it took him a moment to realize he wasn’t alone.

“Aziraphale,” said the figure backlit by the east-facing windows across the kitchen. His feet stumbled to a halt, but it was not a voice he would ever forget.

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale planted himself, preparing for an attack. “Why are you here? How did you even find us?”

“Find you?” Sandalphon melted out of the shadows. “This whole region smells evil. Worse than the pits of Hell.” A sharp sniff and a sneer. “Though you smell enough like _that.”_

Aziraphale tugged at the hem of his pajama shirt, fiddling with the buttons, then tucked his hands behind his back. He had to look calm. In control. Which, unfortunately, meant he probably shouldn’t start screaming for Crowley to wake up. “What I _smell like_ is none of your concern,” he said as coldly as possible. “As for a smell worse than Hell, well, we recognize _now_ that the snake lily was a bad choice, but it had seemed clever at the time. I’m sure the scent has dissipated by now, though, we left all the windows open for a week.”

“Something worse than the local organic matter,” Gabriel snapped. “Reality in this region has been warped. _Something_ is twisting it out of shape, and if you haven sensed it yet, I can only assume you’re either completely oblivious, or you’re causing it.”

“That is…that’s preposterous.” Aziraphale smoothed his hands across the flannel again. He wished very much he were fully dressed, but there was no way to miracle his clothing without giving away how anxious he felt. “Neither I nor Crowley have the ability to _warp reality –”_

“And yet you spend less than a year… _cohabitating,”_ and there was no mistaking the curl of disgust in his voice, “and reality starts to come apart. That can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale took a shaky step back, and immediately found himself far closer to Sandalphon than he ever wished to be. “I’m sure there are many things that…that happened in the last year. Things happen all the time. Humans do…human things…”

Sandalphon’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Would you like to see?”

Aziraphale shook his head. Surely it was some sort of trick. But if it wasn’t, if something truly had gone wrong with reality…

“Let me get Crowley,” he started, turning towards the stairs.

“I don’t think so,” Gabriel said with a smile that never reached the ends of his mouth, never mind his eyes. “You know, I wonder if you two need to be close to activate your strange new abilities. Otherwise, I would be wreathed in Hellfire right now, wouldn’t I?”

It was rather too close to the truth for Aziraphale’s comfort. “Perhaps I just don’t wish to singe the cabinets.” He gestured to the black cupboards with silvery metal fittings. “Crowley would be very upset you know.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Gabriel waved a hand towards the front door. “It’s not far.”

Aziraphale jerked himself away from Sandalphon, adjusted his pajamas again, then decided there was only so much discomfort he would allow. With a snap of his fingers, he was fully dressed, waistcoat, bowtie, jacket. “Had you come at a decent hour,” he said in as superior a tone as he could muster, “this wouldn’t have been necessary.” He adjusted the bowtie and smiled. “Please. Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - I have currently completed the first 10 prompts and am approaching 10k. This is where things pick up!
> 
> Google has told me that Snake Lilies are one of the worst-smelling flowers out there, as well as being so suggestively shaped it's part of the Latin name. Take from that what you will.


	4. Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel and Sandalphon take Aziraphale to investigate the South Downs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Wanted to get a bit further ahead in the writing, and wound up falling behind on the posting.

Aziraphale and Crowley had partly chosen to settle in Devil’s Dyke because, supernaturally speaking, there wasn’t much happening there.

Despite the valley’s name, there were no sacred spots, no cursed ground – apart from the usual village churches and little graveyards – and only the one ley line running down the center of the valley itself. It was impossible to _truly_ get away from ley lines, connecting the places of power in the world, directing channels of force like veins and arteries around the planet, but they were far from any central node.

The cottage sat atop the chalk cliffs and a little back, nestled in a small forest. The path to the bottom of the V-shaped valley was not too steep, but wound slowly, offering ample views of the mist-dotted countryside: the South Downs, the Weald, and just a hint of the distant sea. The warm sky promised to burn the mists away, leaving the view clear to the Isle of Wight.

The moment Aziraphale set foot on the valley floor, though, the pleasant day melted away. The ground thrummed painfully against his feet, the power of the ley line straining against…something. He knelt down and ran a hand across the grass. _Painful_ was right. Crowley could be more certain, with his affinity for plants, but even Aziraphale could sense the way the ground screamed for relief.

“This is impossible,” he whispered. “No, we walked this way not…three days ago. Everything was _fine_ then.”

“A lot can happen in three days,” Gabriel said.

“But _how?_ Oh, I suppose that’s what you’re here to determine.” Aziraphale stood up, brushing off his hands. “I can’t imagine I’ll have anything to contribute.”

Sandalphon nudged his back quite rudely, and Aziraphale began walking again.

The power running below his feet grew stronger with every step. For the first ten minutes, there was no visible clue what was happening, just the air feeling warmer, thicker.

Then Aziraphale stepped atop a small rise, and gasped. The very oxygen he breathed felt molten, the ground shifting under his feet, running like liquid. The plants were tinged yellow here, and a short distance away solid red, and beyond that _black,_ the trees reduced to white skeletal shapes twisting against a sky filled with boiling clouds. It looked as though some sort of explosion had happened; it _felt_ as if the explosion were still going on.

“No,” Aziraphale whispered. Damage on this level should have been visible from the cottage. He hadn’t walked a mile, but he might as well have been dropped onto another planet.

No need to propel him forward now; Aziraphale stumbled across the broken landscape on his own, feeling the epicenter drawing him like a magnet.

“How can –” he paused to cough. Something scorched his throat worse than brimstone. Or perhaps like brimstone and something else. “What could have caused this?” The soft, flowing ground was piled high into a ridge here, though there shouldn’t be any hill. It was like the edge of a crater.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Aziraphale realized that Gabriel and Sandalphon had not approached closer than the yellowed grass. He should return to them. It was a foolish risk, coming here on his own. Better, he should take the opportunity to flee, return home, and…

And he was nearly to the top. Just a few more steps and he could see for himself.

Pressing himself to the sliding earth, Aziraphale peered over the top of the ridge. What he saw…

It was worse than all his nightmares of Hell.

The red light reflected off his face and hair, the heat nearly blasted the flesh from his corporation.

Suddenly, an earthquake struck, somehow, impossibly, from _inside_ the crater. The earth he crouched upon liquified, slid –

Aziraphale looked back just in time to see the grinning faces of Gabriel and Sandalphon –

And he tumbled into the deep red darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	5. Miscommunication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's morning dream is interrupted...

Crowley stretched out on his beach towel, enjoying the sun. As a snake, he could _really_ enjoy the sun; even in a more human body. He stretched to his full length, letting the heat absorb through pale skin. He wasn’t wearing very much, and it felt good.

He tipped his head up a little to watch Aziraphale, walking down into the waves, turning occasionally to wave back. He was wearing even less.

Crowley tipped his glasses down to better appreciate the view.

“Crowley!” A voice shouted from nearby, but faint, as if far away. “Crowley – dear – hear me?”

“What?” Crowley snapped his glasses back on and stood up, looking everywhere for the source of the voice. “I didn’t – that wasn’t – wait.” Only one voice could get that reaction out of him, and it belonged to the angel currently wading thigh-deep in the waves. “Who are you?”

“Who – _me,_ you – most ridiculous – who else?”

Crowley lifted his glasses and stared at the space the voice seemed to originate. There was a slight ripple of light, barely visible in the bright sunshine. “Aziraphale? Is that you?”

“Who – never mind – still asleep.”

His eyes drifted out to the Aziraphale in the waves – looking far less self-conscious than he ever had before, if Crowley were being honest – and back to the smudge of light that was getting increasingly annoyed at him. “Ohhhhh. I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

“That’s what – said!”

“Are the muffins ready yet?” Crowley started to lay back on his blanket, but hesitated. There should be an umbrella – and there it was, angled over the tartan blanket next to his. He shifted it a bit to throw the smudge of talking light into shadow, and could now just make out the wavering shape of a fully-dressed Aziraphale. Much better. Settling down again, Crowley scooped up a handful of sand and let it run between his fingers. “If this is some new way of getting me up, you’re going to have to do a bit better than this.”

“Crowley – help –”

“Nuh-uh. You wanted breakfast, I wanted to stay in bed. You can figure it out on your own. Or,” he grinned broadly and tilted his head out towards the waves, “you can get back into bed and join me.”

The shade of Aziraphale turned, to find his own duplicate walking back up the beach, wearing a straw hat and a lot of confidence. “Crowley!”

“What?” Crowley reached out his hand and pulled Aziraphale down to sit next to him. The colors were a little faded – his vision in dreams was closer to that in his snake body than his human one – but the limbs and stomach pressed to him were soft and warm. He pressed his lips to a bare shoulder, tasting the sea salt. “You can’t go making _suggestions_ to a half-sleeping demon. My subconscious mind will just run with them.”

“Crowley – you – serious?”

“Never, if I can help it.” Crowley brushed some sand off Aziraphale’s cheek, getting a brilliant smile in return. But the dream-Aziraphale wasn’t talking, and if Crowley were being honest, that was a lot less fun. He tipped his head back to the shade of the real Aziraphale. “What’s so important you had to interrupt me?”

“Help –!”

“Yeah, I heard the first time. Look, if you’ve forgotten the difference between baking soda and baking powder again –”

“Not – idiot! –riel!”

Even though he had no reason to do so in a dream, Crowley blinked.

“Say that again?”

“GABRIEL!”

Crowley nearly woke up that instant, but a misty hand landed on his shoulder. The beach had vanished, the silent Aziraphale, the sun, everything but the blue-grey shadow hovering before him. “Not yet.”

At least his voice was clearer. “What is it? Do you need me to come down? What’s he done? I’ll _kill_ him!”

“I’m afraid – well, I’m not sure how to explain it, but he’s trapped me.”

“That bastard! Where? Are you still in the cottage? Did he take you to Heaven? I’ll kill –”

“Darling, _listen.”_ Aziraphale tugged at his arm urgently, but already he was fading, paler than ever. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold this connection.” He glanced behind and below him. “I’m about to land, I think.”

“Land? Where – are you…Falling?” The word ripped through him like razorblades.

“No. Well, yes, but _mostly_ literally. Listen. Go down…valley and follow…inland. You’ll find…looking for…mile…”

“What is it? What will I find?” Crowley grasped urgently, but already everything had faded but a smudge of blue light that might be the sun through the curtains.

“…be careful, my love…”

Crowley opened his eyes, wide awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This dream sequence may or may not have been inspired by magicbubblepie's Aziraphale-as-Hilda pinup ["Seaside Holiday"](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/617560832134512640/magicbubblepipe-seaside-holiday-i-have-no-idea) (Artistic nudity. Not sure if this qualifies for NSFW because I work in an art museum so it's safe for my work...)
> 
> (Also, like Crowley, my vision in dreams is closer to my sight without glasses, even though I wear glasses most of the time that I'm awake. Aren't dreams funny? Anyway, what has become of our angel?)


	6. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley races to Aziraphale's rescue...

An enormous black serpent raced up the valley of Devil’s Dyke, stomach scales sliding and skating across the dirt and grass, ripples echoing down his long, twisted body as it rose and fell with each slither.

The Earth was screaming.

He could hear it, clear as anything, reverberating through his chest and belly, taste it in the air. Something was very, very wrong. And the wrong was getting nearer.

He could still sense Aziraphale, but the angel was getting farther and farther away with every second, vanishing faster than should have been possible.

Not that the valley lacked angelic scent.

The footsteps felt numb and distant compared to the screaming, shrieking, shaking earth, but he sensed their approach. Lifting his head, Crowley could see the ridge that still hid them, but not for much longer.

He reared into attack position and flicked his tongue, waiting.

He wouldn’t be able to hear them, not unless they walked very close and shouted at him; he would have to coil himself around their chests to make sense of the vibrations but, oh, it was tempting. Crowley was no constrictor, but he was big and muscular and very, very angry.

Another tongue-flick told him they were close, and the tramp of feet seemed to be approaching the top of the rise. Any second. Crowley opened his mouth, letting the fangs unfold, feeling the venom begin to pool…

No. Fighting wasn’t the answer. He couldn’t win, not against two Archangels. Sandalphon was one of the strongest angels in the Legions of Heaven, and Gabriel, well, he was something else entirely.

But there were other things Crowley could do.

Though each demon had two primary forms – one humanoid, one not – they were only limited by their own imaginations. A demon could take on any shape, so long as they could imagine themselves in a completely different body. That tended to be beyond the likes of Hastur, Dagon and their ilk.

But Crowley had been on the Earth for six thousand years. He had a few tricks up his scales that none would suspect.

He concentrated on the image of his favorite agents. And when Gabriel and Sandalphon reached the top of the little rise, all they saw was a large black rat, vanishing into the scrub beside the path.

The rat crouched in the shadow of a rock, rubbing his whiskers with one paw. The deep black of his fur was broken by patches of red, and his eyes, well, there was nothing _rodent_ about them. He wriggled his nose and perked his ears.

“…one problem taken care of,” Gabriel was saying. “And if I’m right, the demon won’t be immune to holy water without him.”

“And if he still is?” Sandalphon asked.

“Then we take him back to Heaven and cut him open until we know how he works.” Very casual, as if discussing a broken computer or a flower that wouldn’t bloom.

Crowley scampered a little closer, moving from the rock to a tuft of yellowed grass, ignoring the way touching it made his paws burn.

“What do we do if the traitor finds his way back?” Sandalphon wondered.

“He shouldn’t. Nothing else has returned. And I think it’s rather appropriate, don’t you…?”

The voices faded, too far even for rat ears to pick up.

Crowley knew what they would do next. They would return to the lovely cottage he and Aziraphale had built and destroy it, tear it apart looking for him, burn the gardens they had tended all through the winter. And then they would come back, looking for him.

If he followed them now, there was a chance – the tiniest chance – he might be able to stop them without destroying himself in the process.

But that was never really an option. Aziraphale was in trouble, and there was only one thing to do.

Another burst of black light and Crowley – human-shaped again – crouched in the suddenly-too-short grass. One burst of speed brought him over the rise, to where the ground sloped down, then rose again into the edge of an impossibly tall crater.

Crowley didn’t stop to think, to wonder and marvel at what their valley had become. He ran through the discolored plant life, scaling the slippery, sliding wall of the crater, up and up towards the at sickening sky, grey and black clouds. They didn’t twist, the way storm clouds did; they rose straight from the crater itself and spread outwards, puffed and reaching across the land.

Rather like a mushroom.

When he reached the top, Crowley looked down, and down, and down…

He couldn’t see much, but what he could was impossible.

The hole was deep, miles and miles deep, enough that he should see bright white chalk and bedrock and the top of the mantle, stone turned to taffy in the heat and pressure.

Instead, he saw another world, stretched out below him, an echo of the South Downs he’d come to know. There was the scraped-out V of Devil’s Dyke, the rolling hills, the brick buildings of Ashington far to the north.

It was all on fire.

And somewhere down there was Aziraphale. He could sense it.

“I’m coming, Angel,” he called, and let himself tumble through the opening, falling, falling…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. This is where things start picking up!
> 
> Thank you for reading. FYI I have currently written through Chapter 15, and the total wordcount is approaching 30k.


	7. Alternate Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale arrives in a world different from the one he knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I really start getting into the AU and Endtimes stuff. If you have trouble with angsty cliffhangers, I recommend bookmarking and coming back at the end of the week.
> 
> CW: description of a body, distant combat, abandoned cityscape.

Aziraphale cut off his conversation with Crowley, not a moment too soon. The ground raced towards him and he snapped his wings open, almost too late, the wind resistance straining the bones and the feathers nearly to the breaking point.

The force of the wind propelled him back up, tumbling end over end, until, twisting and flapping, he finally managed to right himself and started drifting over the ruined land.

Great cracks rent the ground, flowing with lava or magma or some such term. In between, everything was dried to the point of petrification, where it wasn't simply on fire, great clouds of choking smoke filling the air. It might almost have been some other world entirely, except now and then he recognized a valley – flooded or burned; a river – polluted beyond recognition; even a hill – bare of trees and grass. And not a living creature to be seen.

It smelled of sulfur, and brimstone, and lightning, and death.

He glanced up, but the hole in the sky was gone. At first, he thought it had closed, trapping him in this mad landscape forever. But no. He’d drifted, and without a familiar point of reference, he didn’t know how he could find his way back.

Wheeling, he spotted the coast, the tall buildings of Brighton coming quickly towards him. He could see it in his mind now; the little brick-faced townhouses of the outer towns, with fields and parks weaving throughout; the steel buildings, rearing to the sky; holiday-makers lying along the beaches or gathered on the pier. It was too early, really, for sea bathing, but the weather was pleasant and humans could be determined.

Had been pleasant. Now the sky was the color of an old bruise and the clouds stretched uninterrupted from horizon to horizon. And the city itself…

He flew down the deluged main roads, past townhouses and shops flooded to their first-floor balconies. The church in its little park had been torn to pieces, the telltale burn marks of lightning and worse on the few stones standing above the waters. A handful of larger lorries were just visible as well, and the streetlights, most snapped in half like toothpicks.

The tallest buildings had been shattered, pieces broken off and dropped onto the homes and shops below. He circled one, apartments, hoping the unbroken windows would show some sign of habitation – no luck. There were few of those, and the rooms behind them looked abandoned.

Even the pier was gone, the top of the roller coaster still just visible, one car eternally suspended on the highest hairpin curve.

Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

Aziraphale landed on the top of the Grand Brighton Hotel, where he and Crowley had come for lunch just the week before. Far too many oysters, followed by spicy beef, and fresh Halibut, truffled mash and the marvelous chocolate peanut butter cake. They’d laughed over the idea of getting a room, only a few miles from home, just for the novelty, the sea breeze, the fun of playing tourist.

Now that same sea breeze ripped through Aziraphale’s feathers, flapping his coat behind him. He could see some sort of storm brewing in the distance, towards France, lightning flashing almost continuously. The corner tower had been sliced clean through, too neatly for any human tools. The Metropole next door had fared little better, brick face cracked and crumbling, the “We Love Brighton” across the roof unreadable.

Easing himself over the edge, Aziraphale drifted through the hole in the face of the Grand Brighton, inspecting one of the rooms. Nearly all the furniture was gone – white carpet black with mold, bed little more than a tangle of once-luxurious sheets beside rotten wood that had once been a headboard. The walls had been burned, too, then submerged, then burned again when the waters receded.

He crossed the room slowly, folding his wings back out of reality. Only as he passed the remains of the bed did he realize there was something solid in amongst the fabric. He folded it back to find…it had once been a person, huddled deep in a leather jacket that would have been too big even before decay set in, bloated face leaving no discernible features. Aziraphale placed a hand on the shriveled arm, as if to feel for a pulse, but of course there was none – the body was cold.

He shifted the human anyway, to lie in something like repose, and pulled the sheets back over the face.

How many more were there? In a city of half a million people, how many survived?

The lightning flashed out at sea, again, again, catching his eye as it grew brighter, closer. It looked familiar, somehow, or nearly so. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it filled Aziraphale with a fear he hadn’t felt in years.

He watched the roiling mass of light and dark approach, enveloping everything in its way.

_It couldn’t be lightning,_ he realized. The light was too continuous, too many places at once, never actually going out, just darting from cloud to cloud. Now and again two blasts struck each other, and one might fall into the sea or rise into the sky.

Dark shapes fluttered between the lightning, like birds. Only too large, he realized as the storm finally devoured the pier, bearing now on him. Much too large…

The first angel darted past, flaming sword in hand, golden ichor dripping from wounds. “Retreat!” they called, wings beating a frantic tempo. “Retreat!”

Then more, hundreds, thousands, hosts greater than any Aziraphale had seen assembled since the Fall, so very, very long ago. They screamed, to intimidate, to show fear, it mattered not, the sound was constant. And hot on their heels, riding hellhounds and wielding glowing balls of Hellfire…

An angel crashed to the floor in front of Aziraphale, jacket torn to shreds, kilt soaked with enough ichor to completely obscure her platoon’s tartan. Some of it was hers, pouring from a wound that cut through one wing – white feathers tipped with gold – and across her shoulder, deep and nasty. A human would have lost all consciousness long ago.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, bending over, stretching out fingers to inspect the damage.

She leapt to her feet, sword cutting a wide arc that sliced through the wall as if it were an illusion, blade halting just before Aziraphale’s nose. “What are you doing here?” She demanded.

“I suppose I could ask you the same,” he began.

“Why aren’t you in uniform? Where is your sword? Identify yourself!”

“I – I – I – I’m Aziraphale!” he managed, stumbling a few steps back. “Angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Earth.”

“Nice try, deserter,” she snapped, grabbing him by the waistcoat. “If you’re going to give a false name, next time use one that isn’t known to every angel, human and demon in the world.”

“Wh…what?” he managed.

A blast of horns – the war cry of Heaven – shook the city, trembling the floor beneath their feet. Suddenly, the armies moved the other direction, pale shapes of angels flashing out to sea, while the dark demons retreated, lobbing Hellfire over their shoulders. Where each blistering ball struck, all was destroyed – buildings, streetlights, angels.

“Find the Beast!” someone shouted. “He has fled the battlefield! Find him!”

“What’s going on?” Aziraphale demanded, ignoring the blade in front of him to stare as an angel and demon, locked in combat, careened into the Metropole, blasting a hole straight through to the other side. “What beast? Why are they fighting?”

“What do you mean ‘what beast?’ _The_ Beast. Their leader.” At his blank stare, she rolled silver eyes. “Who else would lead the army of the demons in the final days? _The Antichrist.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I have not been getting comment notifications so I am WAY behind, but I promise if you comment below I will get back to you eventually!
> 
> The title "Principality of Earth" I first saw in 10yrsyart's awesome Good Omens comic, "Ducks and Dolphins" on Tumblr. If you aren't reading it, you really ought to be! I don't think the title was unique to that comic, but I like the sound of it, and I always think of their adorable Aziraphale when I see the phrase.
> 
> (Also, I hope my descriptions of Brighton are accurate; I went once, in 2009, and really wasn't paying attention. Most of the detail came from Google Maps.)


	8. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley begins the search for Aziraphale, and finds someone else instead...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for more abandoned towns (that's pretty standard from here on out) but no violence here.

Crowley couldn’t sense Aziraphale.

Or rather, he _could_ sense Aziraphale, knew he was somewhere in the world, but that was all he knew. Not the direction, nor the distance, nor anything else.

He circled over the V-cut valley of Devil’s Dyke, looking for anything familiar. Looking for anything _alive._

Those cliffs to the left looked like the ones they had chosen for their home, but there was no cottage, no garden, no little copse of trees sheltering it from view. The landscape had been scraped clean to the bright-white stone underneath.

He circled again, over a lake of fire, another frozen but sublimating, like dry ice. A river of sludge that seemed to run uphill. White bones of animals that never lived in this part of the world, looking far too large to be allowed.

Another circle, further out. Over there – the village of Ditchling. Aziraphale dragged him down there for tea at that little café twice a week. The angel liked to walk down the main street and wave to the humans as if he’d lived among them for decades.

No one lived there now.

With a flutter of black wings, Crowley came to rest at the traffic circle in the center of the village. To one side, that bakery where Aziraphale liked to browse cakes and bottles of wine, windows smashed, shelves bare; to the other, the old Post Office building, which looked as if it had been torn apart from the inside out. What little remained of the brick walls were black with soot.

One whole side of the village was just gone, foundations still smoldering: the little shop where they bought vegetables whenever Aziraphale got it in his mind to try cooking dinner, the jewelers where they would look at rings, had been looking for months, still hadn’t made a decision because Aziraphale needed Crowley’s to be perfect.

Just past the bakery was a little plant shop, which had fared no better. Little pots and planters – once brightly colored, now chipped and faded – held the brown, withered remains of flowers. He touched one, and it fell to dust between his fingers. Nothing could survive here.

Except, in the back, he thought he saw a bit of green. Stepping carefully through the shattered window, Crowley moved through the shop to a corner that got little light, but also shielded its plants from whatever happened on the street. And there it was: a tall succulent, most of its green waxy leaves already turned yellow and fallen off, but a few still clinging to life. He tugged at one, and it was still springy, still a little soft.

“Well. I don’t know how you survived this long, but a little water and you might make it.” He picked up the pot. “Doubt we’ll find any. But let’s see what we can do.”

He was easing back through the window and happened to glance back towards the traffic circle –

Something – _someone_ – darted across the street.

Crowley hunched, pulling his wings out again, clutching his plant close, ready to flee. Aziraphale? Probably not; if the angel were that close, no chance his sense would be so confused. Someone else.

He could run, of course, fly away. He was here to find Aziraphale, and nothing else. He would find his angel, take him back to their world, rescue their lovely home from the Archangels, and never think of this place again.

Except…

Except he was here now, and he didn’t know what was going on.

Crowley _hated_ not knowing what was going on.

And the best way to find out was to ask someone.

With one last brimstone-scented breath, Crowley started towards the figure.

By the time he’d rounded to corner, it was empty again – just a long stretch of road, past the little café with the garden in the back, the inn, the church. It was too silent. Wind whistled over broken glass, but that was all. No rustle of paper, no skitter of feet, no birds, no insects. With the sky dark and scabbed over, he couldn’t even tell what time of day or night it was. The world seemed paused, frozen, holding its breath.

A foot scuffed.

Crowley pressed himself to the side of the inn, wings hidden. Something was just around the corner, perhaps in the parking lot. He set the plant down in the window box, among the decaying remains of its kin, and crept towards the corner, trying to look without being seen. It didn’t work, though, not only because his glasses got in the way.

“Right,” he whispered to himself. _Could be a demon. Or an angel. Or…anything. Be ready to look and run._ He had enough energy for one more form shift today, and a rat could very easily get lost in the ruins.

Snapping around the corner, Crowley found the other being was also pressed tight to the wall, trying to peer without being seen. Almost as tall as Crowley, dressed all in black, with short blond hair, just a hint of curl. The boy looked at him with wide – and very familiar – eyes.

“Adam?” Crowley took a step forward.

Mistake. Crowley was, immediately and without passing through any intermediate space, on the roof of the church across the street. He skittered for a second, trying to keep his balance on the impossibly steep pitch, but the building was in ruins, the consecration weakened to the point that he could barely feel it at all.

“Go away! Leave me alone!” The boy shouted, already backing up the street. “I won’t do it any longer, you hear me? I mean it this time! I want – I want to be left alone!”

“Adam, wait!” He shook out his wings again, jumping after the boy. There was no mistaking him, of course – the powers were a giveaway, but he looked almost exactly like the young boy he and Aziraphale had visited in Tadfield only a month ago. Except _that_ Adam had been full of smirks and slouches and bad jokes, trying to convince Crowley to let him drive the Bentley _just once around town, no one’ll know but me and Dog._ Explaining his idea for a new ice cream flavor even the Americans hadn’t thought of yet. Laughing when Aziraphale asked him if it was possible to get a rotary smartphone.

_This_ Adam stood ramrod straight, body shifting back to attention every time he stopped moving. Older, he seemed, stronger for certain, with a calculating look that took in everything. His eyes darted now, as he frowned, hiding a fear Crowley had never seen in him, not even at the Airbase three years ago.

But it was still him. Still his godson.

“Adam,” he tried again, softening his voice, holding his hands to the sides. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah,” he bunched his fists. “A demon. Think I don’t know? You might not be dressed for battle, but it’s obvious. Well, back off, or I’ll put you _inside_ the church next time. I can, you know.” His lip trembled. “And I’m – I’m not going to fight again. I don’t – don’t care what you lot do to me, I’m not –”

“No.” Crowley took another step forward. “I’m not going to hurt you, Adam. You should be able to see that. In my mind.”

“Not looking in a demon’s mind,” Adam snapped. “Not after last time. You keep your nasty – _everything_ to yourself.” He glanced over his shoulder, as if planning to run. But it was a long way to the next town, with bugger-all in between. “Why d’you keep calling me that, anyway?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Crowley adjusted his glasses, almost pulling them off. Would it make the kid more comfortable, or less? “Isn’t that your name?”

The sullen shrug was _almost_ something the real Adam would have done, except without the little smile that always followed it. “I guess. No one’s called me that since…” he waved a hand, taking in everything.

“What happened, Adam?” A Tudor house had stood nearby, white plaster and ornate stickwork, with a brick section said to date back a thousand years. All gone now, except a set of brick steps, rising ten feet to open out onto empty air. Crowley sprawled against the side of it. “To England? To you?”

“Armageddon,” he snapped. Well. That was fairly obvious.

“You didn’t stop it?”

“Stop it? I _started_ it!” He clenched his jaw, face twisting in pain. Both hands pressed to his forehead. “I didn’t mean to. The voices…they get so loud. Until I can’t think. Until I don’t _want_ to think.” He looked up again, tears in his eyes. “I know – we both know they’ll make me go back. Just. Let me have until then. Just a few days.” Genuine pleading, the kind that only comes from real fear.

“Go back where? Tell me what’s going on.”

“Go back to your – your stupid war! I don’t want to fight, I don’t want to destroy angels, I don’t want to kill two _billion_ humans, and I don’t want to declare myself _God!_ I just…I want…” He bit his lip, stepping back, as if expecting to be hit.

“What?” Crowley slid down the wall to crouch just above the ground. That all sounded familiar, something from the books of prophecy Aziraphale had never stopped reading. But all that could wait. “What is it you want, Adam?”

The boy leaned against the brick stairs, an arm length away, and slid slowly down until he was in a crouch of his own. “I want…I want to go home. I miss my mum and dad. Your lot made me send them away, at the first battle.” He shrugged. “Not that they cared about me.”

“Ugh,” Crowley cracked his head against the wall. He did not come out here planning to deal with teenaged self-esteem issues. “Adam. Look. We both know the only reason your parents went away is because you compelled them. For _Someone’s_ sake, I’ve met them. There’s no way they don’t care about you.”

Adam frowned in confusion. “How do you know my parents?”

“Ehhhhh…long story.” Crowley smirked. “You _could_ save us both a lot of time, just read it from my head? No?” He shrugged. “Then you’re just going to have to trust me. I’ve met your parents. And I can tell you, it’s absolutely _disgusting_ how attached to you they are.”

Adam snorted. “I think you’ve got the wrong parents, mate. Mine didn’t need to be brainwashed to take off back to America without me.”

Crowley stared ahead.

Then he turned to Adam, ripping his glasses off. “Did you say _America?_ Did you – _back_ to America?”

“Yeah.” Adam shrugged. “Thought you said you knew.”

Crowley wrestled with a sudden feeling of unease. Somehow, in an Apocalypse-torn wasteland version of the home he’d built, he’d found something that could make it worse. “What’s…tell me your full name. Full _human_ name. What your parents called you.”

“Well, my mum called me Adam,” he said slowly, “but my full name was Warlock Adam Thaddeus Dowling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> And here's Adam - sort of! I debated for a while how to do his name for minimum confusion, and this was what I landed on: technically Warlock, but with a less absurd middle name that he prefers to go by.
> 
> So here we have one of the main branching points of this AU (I always feel that a divergent AU should either show or reference the point of diversion - there'll be a big "show" later): Adam was raised by the Dowlings, as originally intended. Also, he has no idea who Crowley is.
> 
> Ditchling is a real village in the South Downs which I have *never* visited, but was suggested by someone who lives in the area. Google maps came to the rescue again; otherwise we wouldn't have had such details as the ring shop and Crowley's rescue plant!


	9. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon and an Antichrist walk through a village at the end of the world

_It’s a trap. He’ll hurt you. Destroy him._

The whispers were starting again, but the Antichrist waved them aside. The first ones were always easy to ignore. Once, he’d been able to go weeks – almost a month – fighting them off, but the times when he could be himself were getting shorter and shorter. Maybe soon there would be no time at all.

He studied the demon crouched beside him for another moment. Dark clothes, red hair, sharp features. He’d been wearing a pair of sunglasses before, pitch-black lenses curved over his face to hide the glint of his bright yellow eyes from most angles. Now they were in his hand, the metal arms (black with bright red flames) hidden.

He didn’t look like a demon, not really. The eyes did, the black wings he’d briefly revealed, the sigil on the hinge of his jaw. But apart from that, he looked human. Demons didn’t usually bother to look very human.

“So,” he started, ready to teleport the demon as far as possible if he didn’t like the answer, “if you’re not supposed to bring me back to the war…why are you here?”

“Looking for an angel.” The demon glanced around, his eyes distant. “Not even sure where to start.”

The Antichrist nodded. Some of the angels and demons were sworn enemies, locked in eternal single combat. “Your Adversary?”

The demon grinned, but there was nothing bloodthirsty about it. “Oh yeah.” He stood up, brushing himself off, then held out a hand for the Antichrist. “Had him in my clutches this morning, but he slipped away. And now…” the grin faded.

Ignoring the hand, the Antichrist stood up. “The nearest fighting’s down by the coast. Brighton, when I ran, probably spreading from there. Th biggest is over America…” he closed his eyes to concentrate. “Yeah, New York. And smaller fights in what’s left of the Amazon, and somewhere over the mountains in Asia and…” he looked at the demon again. “Is this angel good at fighting?”

“The best,” he said, with some kind of strange pride.

“Probably America. That’s where I’m supposed to go next, but…”

“I don’t think so.” The demon wandered back to the inn, where a still-partially-green plant in a red pot sat in the box planter. Tucking the glasses in his pocket, he carefully picked it up and walked back. Was it some sort of weapon? He hadn’t heard of that type of biological warfare, but you never knew. “He was here, my Adversary. Or not too far, anyway. And he doesn’t really like America. He’d stay close, I think.” The demon sauntered past the Antichrist with hardly a glance. “Just gotta keep looking.”

More whispers, _destroy him, forget him, find your destiny,_ but the Antichrist pushed them away again, and found himself following after. “Is he on one of the Retrieval squads? They’re supposed to be some of the best fighters. The Guardian of Humanity only picks the best.”

“I don’t know about Retrieval Squads,” the demon said. “He doesn’t get on well with other angels. But Guardian of Humanity…that sounds like his kind of scene. They keep the humans safe?”

“It’s what they say,” Adam said darkly. “If he’s mixed up in _that,_ I can’t help you.”

“Adam, if there’s anyone who can help me, it’s you.” The demon frowned, studying the buildings lining the road behind them. “Can probably help me figure out what happened here, too. This…” He tucked the plant under one arm and waved a hand at the last house, bricks melted to mud. Across the street, the remains of a stone wall and a marker stone of some kind, broken down and scattered as if kicked over by an unruly toddler. “This is wrong.”

“Dunno. Same thing that happened to all the villages.” Rumor had it there were still a few holdouts, but they tended to be destroyed a few hours after the Antichrist arrived. Having an army of demons will do that.

He didn’t realize the demon had stopped until almost too late, and the Antichrist very nearly walked into him. “Look. This is going to be a lot easier if you just do your mind-reading trick. I give you permission.”

“No,” the Antichrist said firmly. “I don’t – not anymore.” He shuddered, trying not to remember the last time. The feel of maggots on his flesh, the voices in his head. _Rip his arm off,_ one of them suggested, rising a little above the whispers. _That’ll teach him some respect._

“Adam? What happened?”

The Antichrist knew if he looked up again, he’d see golden eyes watching him. Might even see an expression he’d never expected to find on a demonic face, on any face ever turned to him again.

He kept staring at his shoes.

“I…didn’t want to fight. Kept teleporting home, even though no one was there. They’d drag me back. One day I read their minds and told them their battleplans were stupid.”

The demon chuckled at that. “That’s my boy. Bet they _were_ stupid.”

“They were glorious,” the Antichrist said, bitterly. “Battles that would rip apart the Earth, shows of power that would make everyone quake in fear. And more than half our forces would be lost in the first three years.”

A long pause while the demon glanced around, taking in the destruction, the boiling red rivers cutting across the field, the pond reduced to an empty pit with a black tar at the bottom. A swarm of locust rose from the dead grass, the only sign of life. “I take it you didn’t convince them to change their plans?”

The Antichrist raised his head to meet the demon’s eyes, but wasn’t ready for that. It was easier to stare at his shoulder. “They. They locked me in a cell with a pair of demons.” His throat grew tight. “Made me read their minds. Over and over. Every…nasty thing they’d ever done, all their awful thoughts…”

For days afterwards, he’d thought like them. Gloried in the idea of ripping people apart, destruction for the sheer joy of it. Even now, one voice whispered, _Hurt him. Rip his wings off. Lock him in a church and laugh as he tries to escape._ He didn’t even think there were any churches left, not around here.

“Hey. Adam.” The Antichrist let his eyes flick up for a second, meeting the golden eyes of the demon. Like a cat. Or a snake. “Let me guess. Hastur and Ligur?” He nodded. “Nasty pieces of work. I don't blame you but...I'm not like them. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Sure. If you say so."

The demon shifted the plant from one arm to another. "And you were…all alone? No friends? No _dog?”_

The Antichrist shoved his hands in his pockets. “Didn’t really have any friends. All those rich kids, we just tried to outdo each other, you know? Who had the better toys, who could throw a cooler birthday party. Never really _talked_ with any of them. When things turned bad…” he shrugged, frowning. “As for the dog, he finds me sometimes, drags me back to the fighting.”

The demon's head snapped back, looking confused. “Your dog does that? ‘S not right. You should be able to control him. He was _designed_ to obey you, be loyal only to you.”

“You’re kidding.” The demon didn’t look like the kind to joke around. “How’s a kid like me supposed to control a Hellhound?”

A long silence. The Antichrist wished he knew what the demon was thinking about, but he still refused to read his mind. Refused to allow another voice in. Finally, he stepped close to the Antichrist, bending forward to try and meet his eyes, making it very hard to look away. “Call him by his name, Adam.”

“Killer?” His expression crumpled into pained disbelief. It would have been funny, if anything in the world could still be funny. “I know. The kids at the party suggested all these _really_ violent names. Widow-Maker. Throat-Ripper. Luger. They said a bit scary dog needed a big scary name and…I didn’t want to look lame.”

“What did you want to call him?” the demon asked.

“Dunno. I had one I liked but…I mean…it was dumb,” he confessed. “Stupid kid stuff.”

“Call him that next time, Adam.” A hand with long, thin fingers fell on his shoulder, squeezed gently. “Every creature prefers to be called his real name.”

The demon started walking again, and Adam followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading!
> 
> Adam should be 14 and a half here. I tried to give him a bit more of Warlock's sullen attitude, to go with his upbringing, as well as a sense of what he's been through.


	10. Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ishliah, angelic soldier, meets a strange deserter with a hidden identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for some injuries and medical treatment (including painkillers) but not described in too much detail.

Ishliah’s blade wavered. Her back burned from the demonic claws that had raked it, her head swam. She just wanted to rest.

But the trumpets were calling her to battle again, urging her to fight. She had to accept the command, let it wash over her, or they would think she was a deserter. A traitor, like this pale idiot in his ridiculous human costume that wouldn’t have fooled anyone. She should turn him in, pull him back out to fight like a proper angel, or skewer him here and now…

Her blade wavered again, dipped, tumbled from her grasp.

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around her, lifting her, carrying her away from the battle. The sounds of it seemed to fade into the distance, as the fighting moved over the sea again, the trumpets so distant as to be little more than music.

No. She needed to return – needed to fight –

“Hush, now, don’t fuss,” the voice said, soft and insistent. “We’ll have you cleaned up in no time.”

He checked three rooms before finding one with intact furniture, a sleeping platform covered in light colored padding. Gently, he lowered her onto it, turning her to lay on her stomach, and by the Hosts it was soft. Ishliah sank into the padding, feeling it give way, supporting her gently. She craved more. The other angel moved one of the coverings, shifting it over her legs and hips, surrounding her with warmth.

“There. Is that better?”

“What _is_ this?” Ishliah settled her face on one of the head cushions. It was even more luxurious than the padding under her body, the fabric flowing against her cheek like water. “It’s so… _good._ Is this why humans spend a third of their lives asleep?” It was so wonderful, it had to be a sin.

But the angel just chuckled. “No, humans do actually need that. But they certainly make the most of it. And my…a friend of mine has been introducing me to the joys of good sleep as well. Pardon me.”

Fingers brushed gently against the wounds, fire screaming across her back and out of her mouth. “Traitor!” she managed when the worst had passed. “Do your worst! I won’t tell you –”

“My worst? This isn’t torture, I’m trying to heal you.” More spikes of pain as he explored the base of her wings, then further down her back, then lifted one of her arms. “These wounds…has anyone _ever_ healed you?”

Ishliah blinked at the scar twisted across her arm, gold and silver lines. “Of course not. Waste of resources. Regular soldiers aren’t authorized for healing.”

“Then, when you’re injured…”

“I keep fighting, of course.” She jerked her arm free. He spoke as if her scars were something to be pitied, not the proof that she was a warrior, that she had never given up. “Should be fighting now. It’s just a scratch –”

She tried to push herself up, and the room tilted alarmingly until she collapsed back on the bed.

He adjusted the covering over her legs. “My dear, the wound on your back has some sort of poison in it. It’s draining you. You probably only have a few hours left. Can’t you feel it?”

“No.” Ishliah shook her head, than paused as the world continued shaking. “No. I can fight. If this is the end, I want to take as many demons down as I can.”

“It doesn’t need to be the end. I can heal you. Close your wounds.” She furrowed her brow, trying to decide what to do. He added, in a gentle voice, “If I heal you now, you can fight tomorrow, and the next day, and possibly many days after that. If I don’t, you will be gone by nightfall.”

“Fine,” she growled. “Make it quick.”

“You might want to hold on to that pillow. This is going to sting a bit.”

She wiggled around, pulling the smaller cushion so that it pressed against her chest and throat and face, wrapping her arms around it. “Proceed.”

Bright, blinding pain – nearly as bad as when the demon had struck – raced across her back. Ishliah pressed her face into the cushion, muffling the cries, but an instant later the pain was gone, replaced with something warm and soothing. She thought she was going to melt, and not from Hellfire.

“Oh, dear lord,” she sighed. “That’s…why does it feel…”

“To ease the pain,” the angel explained. “Just two more to go. Someone really made a mess back here. Are you ready to continue?”

“Mmmmh.” She pressed her cheek against the pillow. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not sure.” Another surge of pain, nearly as bad as the first, and then a surge of bliss equal to it. “Perhaps because you’re the first living creature I’ve seen.”

“Not living,” she reminded him, fluttering her wings a little. “Angel. We aren’t alive, so we don’t fear death. S’what my commander says.”

“Ah. Mine said something similar, you know. Back in the first war.” He might have paused for a short while, or a long one. Ishliah had lost all sense of time. “You know, I’m not sure I believed it even then.”

“’S that why you deserted?”

“Oh, no. Well, I mean, yes I suppose so, but I didn’t exactly desert. This isn’t my war.”

“Doesn’ make sense.” Fingers pressed against the base of her wing, pushing it down a little. “You don’ make sense.”

“I do not. Last one.” The pain this time was far, far worse than any before. Ishliah’s screams would surely alert all the Host as well as the Legions of the Damned to their location. “Done! Oh, you did very well.”

A high-pitched noise, which Ishliah was shocked to realize might be coming from her. She lifted her head and found the small cushion had somehow become damp. “It’s over?”

“Yes, but you should stay here a little longer.” He tugged the cushion away and replaced it with a fresh one. Ishliah felt strangely comforted, once her arms were wrapped around it again. The fingers brushed her back one more time, releasing a small wave of bliss, enough to unknot her muscles and make her sink deeper into the sleeping platform. “I don’t suppose you could…answer a few questions?”

“Mmmm, now the ‘terrogation starts,” she mumbled.

“As it were. You said…er, you said everyone knows who the angel Aziraphale is. Why? What did he do?”

“Guardian o’ Humanity?”

“Oh, I think I like that.” The sleeping platform shifted as if under a great weight. Ishliah cracked open an eye (why were they closed?) to see the other angel sitting beside her, his eyes shining. “Guardian of Humanity. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Guesso. Pretty nice gig. Not much fighting anymore, since they put the Wall up.”

“Oh. No, on second thought, I don’t like where this is going.”

“Nah, it’s good,” she insisted. She’d seen the plans. One of Gabriel’s best ideas, and he really came up with so many. “New Eden keeps ‘em safe. They’ll…” her face did something strange, stretching, sucking at air, far beyond her control. “They’ll learn to like it.”

“I…see…are _all_ the humans in this New Eden?”

“Not yet. Gonna be. Well. Good ones.” A smile stretched across her face. “Demons’ll take the rest.”

“That’s horrid!”

“S’war. What are we gonna do, save them all?”

_“Yes.”_ His fingers tugged on the edge of the sleeping platform. It was the only thing to watch, and her eyes drifted shut again. “Who decides? Which humans are good?”

“God, right? ‘R some judge? Dunno. Archangels tell us.” That should be obvious to _any_ angel. This one certainly asked too many questions. “Here. You _are_ a nangel, righ’?”

“I think it’s time for you to sleep,” he said gently, resting a hand on the back of her neck. “Dream of…well…have you ever experienced anything _pleasant?”_

“This sleeping platform. ‘Snnice.”

“Ah. Well. Perhaps dream of nothing, and let your mind rest.” Everything got strange and distant, like she was floating through the void of space, only warm and comfortable. “I don’t suppose you know where New Eden is?”

“Secret. No one knows.”

“Thought as much. Yes. Just sleep…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Ishliah is identified as one of the angels of the east, sometimes associated with the sunrise.
> 
> New Eden is entirely my own invention, but if you can figure out what part of end times prophecy it's based on you can have a cookie! (Must provide own cookie)


	11. Old Fashioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale attempts to return to the South Downs, but encounters a new problem

Aziraphale stared at the sleeping angel. He’d never even asked her name. It hadn’t mattered, really.

He hated how callous that sounded. That was what Heaven had always wanted him to be, for six thousand years. Callous, disinterested, distanced from the beings who surrounded him, tending to them without caring, like a farmer preparing animals for slaughter. Until one day, he couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t ignore the pain. Couldn’t pretend it – they – everything – didn’t matter.

With a sigh, he walked over to the window, looking out across the remains of the shattered city.

_Crowley’s the one who taught me,_ he thought, tugging at the curtain. _What matters. What doesn’t._ If the Aziraphale of this world had never learned…what did that mean? Did Crowley not exist? He didn’t know how these other worlds worked, but surely there couldn’t be an Aziraphale and no Crowley. The thought was too wretched to consider.

She’d said there were still humans out there, somewhere. _New Eden._ Under the thumb of the Archangels. Were they any kinder in this world than his own? It didn’t seem likely.

Six millennia of hard-won empathy. If he just walked away, could he say he’d changed at all?

“Don’t be a fool,” Aziraphale told himself. “This isn’t your world. It’s not your responsibility. Crowley must have come by now. You need to find him and get back home. Where you belong.”

He paused to adjust the blanket over the sleeping angel. She’d stay unconscious for at least a day, and he’d shielded her enough to ensure she wasn’t interrupted. After that, she’d be on her own.

Nothing more to do here, Aziraphale began searching for a way outside.

\--

Halfway back to the villages of the South Downs, Aziraphale saw shapes moving in the sky.

Angels. _Probably._

He fluttered down to land next to an abandoned car, rusted through so that he could tell nothing about it except that it was smaller than the Bentley.

Hundreds of angels, it appeared, weaving in a grid over the South Downs. _Searching._

But not, he thought, searching for him.

A few shot by nearly overhead. He couldn’t get a good look at them, but it was enough to jog his memory.

He waved a hand over his outfit. Cream jacket, gold buttons shining. Two rows of them. Winged pins at the collar. Tartan kilt. And a white pith helmet to complete the look.

One piece of glass still survived in the car’s wing mirror, which he used to inspect the result. The tartan had come out a little wrong – he’d tried to imitate a basic foot soldier’s pattern, but instead it was just his own with a bit more gold woven in. That might stand out.

Well, it he was going that route already, may as well give himself a promotion. He added some gold braid to his epaulettes, a smattering of ribbon bars on his chest, nothing too ostentatious. A bottom-choir angel, but one with an exemplary record. Perfect.

He almost wished he’d taken the other angel’s sword, but he was happier without it. Besides, she would almost certainly return to the fight before she’d even fully recovered. She needed it more than he did.

“Alright. A message. Just delivering a message. Top Secret. Priority. Yes.” _Don’t overthink it,_ as Crowley habitually reminded him when Aziraphale’s cover stories became more complex than the plots of his favorite thrillers.

He kicked off from the ground and flew directly towards the other angels, hands out so they could see he was unarmed.

“Halt!” one shouted, almost immediately.

Aziraphale spread his wings to hover in the air and immediately wished he hadn’t. Six thousand years on Earth, certain muscles were _far_ out of practice, and really, these wings weren’t designed for hovering even in the best of circumstances.

“Identify yourself!” another angel snapped.

“Kasbeel, Third Warden of the Fourth Heaven, Second Battalion, Fourth Platoon, recently transferred from Fourth Battalion, Third Platoon. Messenger of –” he hesitated for half a second, because messengers weren’t numbered. “—of, er, Venus.” He threw up his hand into what he hoped was the correct salute for his alleged station.

The other two angels glanced at each other. “Third Battalion you say?”

“No, Second Battalion, though, previously, I was in the Fourth Battalion, though, interestingly, when I was first created –”

“Alright,” the angel on the right said, saluting him back, “we don’t need your life story. But you can’t come through here. This area is under containment.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, trying to look as though he knew nothing relevant. “Why would it be under containment?”

“That’s classified.”

“Ah. Well. I need to come through here. I have a message. Information on the most recent troop movements, for…” another hesitation. Gabriel’s name would get him anywhere, assuming Gabriel wasn’t currently in Heaven and willfully ignoring such petty details as death tolls and battle formations, which sounded very probable. Michael would work as well, but there was a chance she – or Uriel, or Sandalphon – was leading the charge back over the sea. If he gave the wrong name, they would know. “…for headquarters.” There was always a headquarters.

“That sounds very important,” said the angel on the left. “You still can’t come through here.”

“Classified,” the angel on the right added.

“But you don’t understand! I need to deliver this message as quickly as possible. Do you know how many battles have turned based solely on the arrival of timely information?”

“How many?”

“Lots! Think of the Battle of Marathon! The Charge of the Light Brigade, though that’s really more of a counterexample. Er.” Aziraphale was already near the end of his scanty military knowledge, but the two angels looked baffled already. “The Battle of the Iron Gate! The War of the Outlaws! The Boston Molasses Flood! The Great Wrath!”

“Did you say _Molasses?”_

Perhaps he’d overplayed it a bit. “Many died at the hands of Distilled Purity.”

The two angels exchanged another glance. He wished their faces weren’t so carefully blank. “I suppose you’re correct,” the one on the left started, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“We can take the message and deliver it for you. To save time.”

“You can’t,” Aziraphale jumped in, a little too quickly.

Now he _could_ read their expressions: obvious suspicion. “Why not?”

“It’s…classified.”

“I can carry a sealed container without opening it,” pointed out the angel on the left.

“There is no physical message. I have it…memorized.”

“You have all the troop movements memorized?” The angel on the right had graduated from suspicion to downright distrust.

“Yes. Which is why I need to deliver it soon, before the memories start to decay.”

The angel on the right leaned closer. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Kasbeel, Third Warden of –”

“And what does your name mean?”

“Er.” Aziraphale glanced at the swarms of angels fluttering around the South Downs. “You know, I’m starting to think it would be much simpler to go around. Yes. Far less hassle. No tedious bureaucracy or other nonsense. I’ll just be on my way. Toodle-pip!”

He spun and folded his wings, gliding and diving above the twisted motorway. As near as he could tell, no one was following him.

With one last flutter of aching wings, Aziraphale settled down beside another rusted-out car. He stretched and flexed his wings, which had not been used this much since before the atmosphere was formed. The one on the right had developed something like a cramp. “Perhaps I’ll walk for a bit. Old-fashioned footwork and all that.” With one last arch of his back, he tucked his wings away and quickly scanned the sky for any sign of pursuit.

Which was why he almost missed the sounds from the road up ahead. Voices, not loud, but numerous. Traveling in the same direction as he.

Crouching behind another car, Aziraphale watched them. Twenty, thirty – likely more – humans, traveling in a pack. A few had children, including the young woman at the back with short, dark hair. All of them were smudged with dirt, exhausted, and moving as fast as they could.

He shot another glance back towards the South Downs. There wasn’t much he could do to try and meet up with Crowley, not until the angels found whatever they were searching for. Assuming they weren’t searching for holes in the sky or beings from another world, as that would make things immensely awkward.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Crowley was here. Crowley would find him. And in the meantime, a bit of detective work was in order.

A wave of his hands turned the battle outfit back to his usual suit. He did his best to shield himself, just in case, but it wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny. Hopefully the humans would be too distracted to notice his aura. Hopefully there would be no angels or demons.

“Right,” he muttered, adjusting his waistcoat and straightening his tie. “Time to get a few answers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> "Kasbeel" according to my sources means "He who Lies to God." He was originally an angel named Biqa ("Good person") who Fell when he turned from God the moment of his creation. I don't know why, but this story gives off STRONG Aziraphale vibes...
> 
> The events Aziraphale lists are all real, though as far as I know, only Marathon and the Charge of the Light Brigade are in any way connected to battlefield communication. The Boston Molasses Flood of 1919 is also real; a tank of fermenting molasses at Purity Distillery Company burst, causing over 2 million gallons of molasses to surge through the streets of the North End at speeds of over 35 mph. (For all that it sounds like a funny disaster, the waves peaked at 25 feet, and 21 people were killed, 150 injured, and molasses were tracked to every street in Boston, making for an expensive cleanup.)


	12. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley begins to tell Adam his story, but they are soon interrupted.

“So,” Adam said, after they’d been walking for a bit. “Does. Does your plant have a name?”

Crowley glanced over his shoulder. The kid still trailed behind, as if he might bolt or slip away at any moment, but he hadn’t yet. _“Zamioculcas zamiifolia,”_ Crowley said, hefting the pot. “Not very good for day-to-day use, I guess.”

“No, I mean, did you name it?”

“Do I look like I name my plants? Oh, don’t answer that.” Crowley turned to walk backwards, holding out the pot. “Here. You name it, since you’re so keen on the idea.”

“I’m not keen, you just – I thought –” He shoved his hands in his pockets, and looked away with a frown.

Crowley shrugged and started walking forwards again, heading west. The road was just a grey-black line through a brown-black landscape, lit here and there with a distant red glow. He’d hoped the soil was still good – it looked volcanic in some places, and volcanic deposits could be very fertile – but a close look at one handful and he’d tossed that idea out. There was something in the earth, something beyond demonic, something that _hated_ life. Nothing would ever grow here again.

“Why are you walking?” Adam asked.

“Because I left my car at home.” Crowley stopped short. The Bentley was still at the cottage, and the last he’d seen of his world… “Oh, no. No, those _bastard_ Archangels better not _touch_ my car. I will _destroy_ them! I will make them wish I _had_ got them with the Hellfire last time, I swear to Someone.”

“I – wait.” Adam rushed up to walk beside him. “You had a chance to kill the Archangels? _You?”_

“Eh, it was really more of a prank.” Crowley smiled. “Oh, but you should have seen the look on Gabriel’s face. That smug bastard has never been so scared in his life.” He ran his hand through his hair, frown returning. “Maybe that’s why he’s out for petty revenge. We took away the thing he cared about most.”

“Didn’t think he cared about anything, really.”

“His dignity. Self-image. Made him look like the cowardly fool he is. And now, he’s trying to take away the thing I care about most.”

“Your car.”

Crowley looked up at the black sky, wondering if he was imagining the white shape flying in the distance. “Well, two things I care about most, I suppose. But we’ll get back. And if there’s one _scratch_ on the paintwork of my Bentley…”

He stopped, staring across the blasted plains. No, something _was_ flying, but not Aziraphale. Unless there were now dozens of Aziraphales.

“Adam. How’s your teleportation?” He hadn’t asked yet; that was the purpose of the walk, get Adam to trust him a little more before asking to use his powers. But time, it appeared, was up.

“I…I have to know where I’m going.” The kid had seen the angels, too, and he was trembling. “I don’t want to fight again…”

“You don’t have to.” It looked like at least a few minutes, but they were covering the ground quickly. “So you have to picture it clearly? Like, I don’t know, your bedroom at home?”

He shook his head, backing away. “No. They destroyed it when I kept running away. Rebuilt it in Hell, so if I try, I wind up there instead.”

“Then – I don’t know – send the angels away. Anywhere in the world, any place you can picture. You said there’s a battle in America?”

“I – I – there’s too many!”

“Fine, send _us_ to America!”

“But I’ve never been! I – maybe I can do myself, but not you.”

Crowley had never seen that look of panic on Adam’s face before. The kid was many things, but he’d never been truly hopeless, not in their world. “Look at me,” he pulled off his glasses, tucked them in a pocket, and looked Adam square in the eyes. “You can do this. Of course you can! You made Atlantis rise from the sea in a _dream._ This is nothing!”

“What are you talking about? I never – did – that’s not something I can do!”

Different world, different miracles. “Fine, I don’t know what you’ve done exactly. But you absolutely _can_ do this. Your only limit is your imagination, and –” 

Suddenly, an image crossed Crowley’s mind: young Warlock Dowling, eight years old, sprawled across the floor of a hotel room because he didn’t have his toys and his gadgets wouldn’t charge. Bored, utterly inconsolable, he nagged and complained every member of his father’s staff until they entertained him again.

_Adam Young_ had imagination, limitless, boundless, from a lifetime running through woods and fields coming up with endless games for his friends to play.

_Warlock Dowling_ had never needed to entertain himself, but what he lacked in imagination he made up for in sheer stubbornness.

This child in front of him - this _Adam Dowling_ \- had neither Adam’s imagination nor Warlock’s obstinance. And he was broken, and scared and probably about to be dragged back into someone else’s war.

Crowley shoved the plant into Adam’s hands. “It doesn’t need to be watered much, just a spritz when the soil is completely dry. Not too much sun either. And _don’t_ let any animals chew on it.”

“What? What are you doing?”

“I’m going to distract them while you run like Heaven, and _keep_ running until you’re ready to stop them.” He flared his wings out behind him. They would probably come in handy.

“What? I can’t –”

“Bless it, Adam, _yes you can._ I’ve seen you do it before. Now I’m picturing the safest place I know. Do you think you can get there?”

“I…yes I see it.” He took half a step back. “But…I don’t even know who you are.”

“Bit late for that now. Go.” Crowley turned to face the approaching angels, but Adam grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back.

And looked straight into his eyes, through them, far beyond to his very core. Scraped everything that he was, pulled it to the surface, and read it all, down to the last atom.

“Holy _shit,”_ the young Antichrist breathed.

“Told you it would save time.” With trembling hands, Crowley pulled the glasses back out and settled them on his face. That look had hit him harder than he’d expected. “And everything that Adam did, you can do, too. Now get out of here.”

Adam vanished.

“Aw, blast. Should have asked him to miracle me up a weapon or something.” He concentrated for a moment, and felt the heavy weight of the Bentley’s hand crank settle into his palm. Something created by the Antichrist would probably be more effective against angels, but if it came to a fight, he was dead anyway. At least it made him feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I am now officially caught up between AO3 and Tumblr, and will be posting to both at once going forward. I am NOT caught up on my prompts, but will be writing like the wind.
> 
> Oh, man, I hope this wasn't too much of a cliffhanger! :O Sadly, it's really only *worse* from here on out.


	13. Unlucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley confronts the angels while Adam escapes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mild violence, very threatening angels

Two angels settled in front of him. Then another behind. And two to either side.

“Aw, all this for me?” He grinned as broadly as he could, holding the starter handle casually to the side, not threatening, but making sure they could see it. “Nice to meet you all. I’m –”

“Anthony J. Crowley,” one of the angels spat. “The Serpent of Eden.”

Crowley frowned in surprise. “Guess my reputation really does proceed me.”

“Did you think we wouldn’t recognize you in this form?” One of the angels grabbed at his wing, tugging on the black feathers. “Who authorized _these?”_

“How did he get here?” one angel demanded.

“The Antichrist must have summoned him,” the first replied, then pinned Crowley with a glare. “Where did he go? And why would the Beast want _you?”_

“That’s just…really rude,” Crowley commented, already sizing up the angels. The one who had started speaking was at least a Virtue, two ranks above Aziraphale. Two of the others were Principalities, maybe more. And was that _Ofaniel_ standing behind him, the Angel of the blessed _Moon?_ “And I don’t know where he’s gone. Just vanished. Teenagers, though, what do you expect?”

Ofaniel slammed a fist into Crowley’s spine, leaving him sprawled on the ground. “Why did he bring you here? Did you think you could escape through the hole in the sky?”

“You’ve noticed it then?” Crowley tried to sit up, but one of the angels stamped a foot between his shoulder blades, grinding his face back into broken asphalt, his wings thrashing helplessly. Another foot slammed down towards his hand, but he jerked away in time. The angel had the starter handle trapped, but not Crowley's fingers.

“Wouldn’t have worked, anyway,” Ofaniel said. “We’ve been investigating it for hours. There’s no way to get through.”

“Oh, that was not the news I wanted to hear today,” Crowley groaned, feeling his bones run cold. _Could be wrong. Could be lying. They didn’t notice me flying out. That’s gotta mean something._

“We’re wasting our time here,” snapped Ofaniel. “We can interrogate him back in the cell.”

_Interrogate?_ Considering how things were going, they were interested in a lot more than a few questions. "Nh, sorry fellas. I've got plans today already.”

Fast as he could, Crowley shifted again, back to a black rat but small as he could imagine it, almost gerbil-sized. The angel pinning him down fell over, and he tore across the asphalt, paws skittering, dodging between legs and hands that reached down but couldn’t grasp him.

Crowley charged towards the edge of the pavement. There’d been something like an abandoned barn a short way back, he might be able to get there first if he was very, very lucky.

But the moment his paws touched the dying earth, he knew there was no chance of that. It burned through him like acid, like holy water only not holy in the least, every muscle in his body clenched and spasmed, tossing him about on his back. Squirming as if he were still a snake.

Relief finally came when a hand clenched him, squeezing his body too tight. A loud, echoing voice said something, but Crowley was too far gone to hear.

\--

He came to, lying on his side, one wrist held in a chain that burned, but only a little compared to the earth he’d foolishly stepped on. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but his mouth felt dry and funny, so probably some time. One of his wings was pressed against the wall behind him at an awkward angle. His free hand rubbed across his face and eyes, then froze.

“Glasses,” he muttered, sitting up. “Where’s…”

A click of metal on metal.

Crowley blinked in the dark to see an angel sitting on a chair not ten feet away, holding his folded-up glasses. Long dark hair hung to his shoulders, flat and straight, in contrast to his thick, white beard. “Ah. You’re up,” he said, eyes glittering kindly.

“What happened? I don’t remember…”

“You stepped on ground that was cursed by Abaddon. No creature of the Earth can touch it. The blight started in several locations and now covers a third of the world.”

“Abaddon? _Wanker,”_ Crowley muttered. They were in a room, he could tell that much despite his still-fuzzy vision. Square. Completely enclosed on all sides. Presumably there was a door somewhere, but if his captor was an angel, not necessarily. “I touched it before though…”

“Yes, in this almost-angelic form, you would be safe, and in your true form as a serpent.”

“S’not my true form,” Crowley muttered, pulling himself up by the chain around his wrist. He got as far as a sitting position before his head started pounding again and his stomach twisted, bile rising. Good enough for now. He swallowed, and felt a second chain around his neck, thin and flexible like a choker. “This is.”

“You can tell yourself that, but we both know the truth. In any case, you were in an earthly form when you stepped on it. That’s curious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a demon take a form like that before.”

“Yeah. ‘S gonna be all the rage soon.” Right. No doors, no windows, just the angel, the chain, and some sort of coil of rope on the floor by the opposite wall. He couldn’t _wait_ to find out what that was for.

“That would certainly make things interesting, but I think you’re lying.” He inspected Crowley’s glasses, the red flames down the arm. “Is it a common ability, where you come from?”

“Uh…you just said you didn’t think so…”

And as Crowley watched in horror, the angel pulled out a second pair of glasses, inhumanly black lenses, silver frame, wide face shields to hide even a glimpse of the eyes from the side. The glasses he'd worn four years ago, until the airbase, until he and Aziraphale... “These new ones expose _more_ of your face. That suggests something is different. Or perhaps simply changed in the last few years?”

“I – where did you get those?” Crowley scrambled forward, tugging at the ground with his feet, but the chain around his wrist didn’t let him move far. “How could you…”

The coil of rope shifted.

“Ah. Something changed then. I can’t wait to find out what.” The angel stood up and walked towards him. Crowley scrambled again, this time away, towards the corner, chain pulling his arm across his chest. He flared his wings as best he could in the cramped quarters.

“Enough of that.” And his wings vanished.

“How did you do that?” Crowley demanded, surging to his feet, ignoring the cracking pain in his skull. “Who _are_ you?”

The angel waved a finger, and Crowley’s legs twined together, solidifying, becoming a serpent’s tail again, black and red scales climbing across his stomach and up to his ribs. He fell back to the floor with a cry, arm jerking painfully in his socket.

The coil of rope shifted again. It was, he realized, far too thick to be rope. Too black, except where it was red. And held about the middle with a silver cuff and chain.

“You know, I’m very fortunate. I never imagined I would have a chance to introduce myself to you again, but here we are.” He smiled, and somehow it still radiated warmth and kindness. “I am Shoftiel, angel of punishment. And for the past four years…”

The rope in the corner twisted, rearing up, turning an arrow-shaped head and a pair of shining golden eyes to look across the room, flicking a tongue in interest. It had a golden choker around its neck, thin and flexible, just like Crowley’s.

“…I have been the prison warden for the Serpent of Eden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> The next two sections are very long, but I will post them when I can. I wanted to do a bit Thing for the story's midpoint and...well...I got carried away...
> 
> Shoftiel: "Judge of God" and one of the seven Angels of Punishment, who are themselves ruled by the Angel (or Angels) of Death. I don't think he's as nice as he appears to be.


	14. Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the post-Apocalyptic wasteland, two travelers meet a strange man in a pale suit...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one marks the shift to MUCH longer chapters, which is why there was a delay. Outsider POV, because some things are better explored through people who are experiencing them.
> 
> CW: Hunger, despair, threats of violence, swearing, abduction, an ending you won't like

Lyla had been walking for days. For years, really, ever since her parents had gone out for supplies and never returned, leaving her and Benny to fend for themselves.

They’d thought Dover would be safe. Had been, for almost half a year, before the blight reached the fields, before the fish all died, before the castle had been destroyed by a blast of power during one of the endless battles that raged in the sky.

She didn’t know which side had fired the blast. Didn’t even matter. Their home was gone.

Benny walked beside her, holding her hand. He was exhausted. Beyond that. His little legs couldn’t keep up with the crowd, but Lyla wasn’t strong enough to carry him for long. Every now and then, he tugged at her arm. “’M hungry,” he would whine. “’M tired.”

“I know Benny. Just a little more.”

“How much more?”

“A bit?” Lyla had been to London once, back before Benny was even born. It had taken less than two hours, but it had felt like an eternity.

She hadn’t known what eternity was back then.

“Is there anything to eat?”

Lyla dug in the pockets of her father’s jacket, hanging loose off her thin arms. She’d taken everything she could find from the ruins of the castle, but it had been a long walk through the blight. “I’ve got…um…two walnuts.” She tried to crack one in her hand without letting go of Benny, without falling behind, without dropping the last food they might see for days –

Suddenly her hand was empty.

“Benny!” She spun, to find a man in a pale suit carrying him. “Give him back!”

“My dear, I think you need both hands, and he’s quite tired –”

“Shut up! Give him back _now!”_ She struck out, kicking him in the shin. His eyes went wide with surprise, and she prepared for another kick, maybe a bit higher this time.

“Alright. Here, he’s fine,” he quickly put Benny down and Lyla scooped him up. He wasn’t _that_ heavy after all. Benny had hardly grown at all since the war started.

“Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“What do you mean? I’ve been traveling with you for quite some time.”

“No you haven’t.” There wasn’t a spot of dirt anywhere on his pristine suit. He weighed as much as half the traveling party put together, his _hands_ were _manicured._ “You’re not from _any_ of the surviving cells. Are you from some – some hidden estate? Which side did you make a deal with?” Lyla clutched Benny until he gave a moan of pain. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“I – honestly, it’s nothing of the kind. I have been traveling with you for a long, long time, remember?”

Lyla frowned. She supposed she did, but… “Dressed like that?”

“Well, I have standards.” He straightened the ridiculous tartan tie around his neck and smiled. “Now, if I can’t carry him, perhaps I can take care of those for you?” He held out his hand. She placed both the walnuts in his outstretched palm. The man clenched his fist for a moment, then opened it again to show both neatly cracked and ready to be eaten.

“Thank you,” Lyla murmured, picking up the nuts and handing them to Benny. He devoured them in seconds.

“My dear, you really should have kept one for yourself!”

“Don’t need it,” she said, even as her stomach growled. “We’ll be in London soon, right?”

“I…perhaps.” His eyes lingered on the dried-up river to their left, empty except for a thread of grey slurry oozing along the center. “I walked this way once, a long time ago.”

“We should catch up,” she muttered. Something about the man made her uncomfortable. They had fallen a little behind the rest of the group, and she wasn’t sure if anyone would turn back if she screamed.

“I don’t think you’re likely to get lost. Just keep to the road and…”

Up ahead, the embankment to the right had collapsed, spilling black earth across the road. It wasn’t thick, but it was wide. Everyone had stopped.

Lyla set Benny down beside one of the abandoned, rusted cars that littered the motorway. “We’ll have to go back.” There had to be a north-bound road that wasn’t blocked. Maybe at Worthing, there was supposed to be a major road there. Maybe. They’d lost the map two days ago, but north was north.

“Go back? It’s just a bit of dirt. Come, even I’m not that precious.”

Lyla backed away from him, eyes wide. _“Just a bit of dirt?_ Are you insane?” She’d stepped on a patch once, back when it first spread to southern England, and had been stuck in bed for a week recovering.

“I just mean,” he waved a hand vaguely.

But more of the crowd had heard him. All eyes were on him now, and the muttering. _Who is this man? Where did he come from? Is he a spy?_

He held up his hands, looking a little nervous. “I just meant, er, there’s certainly a bit of a path around it. Look!”

They all turned back, and sure enough, there was a narrow strip on the left side of the road, completely bare of earth. They could pass through there, single file.

The man went last, and when Lyla turned back, he was rising from a crouch, dusting off his hands with a frown. “Just stumbled a bit, my dear, don’t worry about me.” He walked beside her again, smiling as if they were friends. “I don’t believe I caught your name?”

“Lyla,” she said, reluctantly. “Lyla Wilson. This is my brother, Benny.” He was walking beside her again, holding her left hand, as far as she could keep him from the strange man.

“Nice to meet you. My name is, er, Kasbeel.”

“Kasbeel? What sort of name is that?”

“Oh a very common one. In. Um. Chaldea.”

“Never heard of it.” Lyla frowned, the conversation shifting oddly around in her mind. “Oh, hang on, did you say Chelsea?”

“Yes, that certainly seems likely.” He cleared his throat. “Yes. Kasbeel. From Chelsea.”

Something didn’t add up, but Lyla supposed it wasn’t important. They were heading north, and they’d be in London soon. That was all that mattered.

“Why London?” Kasbeel suddenly asked. “Surely there’s someplace closer you can all go?”

“Closer? The entire south coast is flooded.” She slowed down a little, as Benny’s legs started getting tired again. “And…they say London is safe. Only place _they_ can’t go. You just have to find a way in.”

“They?”

“Who else? Angels and demons. Good riddance to both.”

Kasbeel slowed to a stop. Lyla almost kept walking without him, but his cheerful face had fallen, and he just looked lost. The same expression Benny wore when they’d left Dover, and Canterbury before that, and the day their parents had left…

“Well, why are you going, then?" She demanded "Since you don’t know anything about anything.”

“I – I was supposed to meet someone.” He looked out east, back over the basted, black hills of the South Downs. “Out there. Only…it’s all gone now. I thought he would go to London next. But if he can’t get in…I don’t even know where to look.”

“I mean…they say there’s ways. For humans.” She wasn’t sure if it was true. A wall of energy was supposed to surround the city, incinerating anyone who tried to cross it. But everyone knew someone who knew someone who had gotten out – or in.

Lyla glanced up to find the group already rounding the next corner. It wasn’t safe to fall behind, but somehow, she didn’t feel in danger from this strange man. “I’m sure your friend will be able to find a way in. Us, too. Alright?”

He smiled. “Yes. I just…I very much missed home for a moment.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else. Now come on.” She picked up Benny and started walking again.

“’M tired,” he said, which was almost all he ever said anymore.

Kasbeel’s hand drifted over and stroked his hair. “How about a little nap? I can carry him if you want. It’s no trouble.”

“Well. Alright. But only because we’re walking the same way. No funny business.”

Benny was sound asleep before he even reached Kasbeel’s arms, head resting lightly on his shoulder.

\--

The line of rusted cars stretched across the motorway.

On the other side, the Marked ones, carrying clubs, and broken bottles, and knives.

“Just let us through,” someone called, as the wanderers milled around anxiously.

“Get lost, _garbage,”_ snarled a woman, slamming her hands against a car, the Mark on her face twisted by her rage. “You’re not getting our food. Fuck off!”

“We don’t _want_ your food!” one voice called, just as another shouted, “Please! We’re starving!” And another: “We’ve got kids here, just feed the kids!” And another: “The angels took Brighton, how much longer do you think you have.” And another: “Just let us through!”

“I don’t understand,” Kasbeel murmured, gently rocking Benny, who still slept in his arms. “Why won’t they just let you pass? And what are those brands on their faces?”

“Now I know you’re shitting me,” Lyla grumbled. “Are you going to tell me you never heard of the Mark of the Beast?” The gang on the other side of the cars all wore it somewhere: on their foreheads, their cheeks, their necks. Someplace it couldn’t easily be hidden – a complex sigil of straight and curved lines, contained in a circle.

“Ah,” Kasbeel sighed. “Yes, well…I’ve never actually seen it before…”

Lyla had seen it on the occasional traveler, trying to break into whatever place of safety they’d secured for themselves, hammering at the doors and screaming as she and Benny hid amongst people they hoped they could trust. Never on such a large group, all gathered together.

One of them leapt onto the bonnet of a car, throwing a bottle over their heads. Lyla ducked – she wasn’t the only one – but it shattered loudly somewhere in the distance. The voices all stumbled to a halt.

“You all know the rules,” the figure on the car snarled, pointing with a bar of metal, dented and stained. “Anyone can pass through here – so long as they take the Mark. Otherwise, you go around.” The figure glared across the crowd, taking in the wanderers, their wide, desperate eyes. “Angels don’t bother us. Never have, never will. Only reason they’d come here is for you lot, and we’re not going to take that risk. No Mark, no passage.”

Another murmur ran through the crowd. Kasbeel was asking a question, but Lyla couldn’t listen. She was so hungry. Couldn't think. There was no way around except miles and miles of back tracking, searching for another road north. Her eyes burned. She was so _tired._

A wailing siren – mournful and distant – broke through the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at all.

“Well,” called the Marked one standing on the car. “Looks like it’s time to decide.”

The ground trembled underfoot, rattling the cars where they sat. The Marked ones laughed, weaving through the barricade, shoving their way through the crowd, forcing the wanderers into a tighter and tighter knot. “They’re gonna want a good look at you lot,” one of them crowed. “Stay right here.” Several people started crying.

Suddenly, Lyla found Benny back in her arms, stirring slightly. Kasbeel stepped in front of her, watching the sides of the road. “Stay close to me, my dear. Whatever happens.”

She could have laughed. He looked at least fifty, soft as…well, as nothing was, not anymore, not in this ravaged world. But he still held his arm out protectively.

Well. He was the least malnourished person here. That might count for something. Maybe the demons would eat him first.

The erupted out of the ground, just like in the stories, the foul earth crumbling and flowing away as they rose effortlessly, already grinning.

Four of them, identical to each other – dark skin, hair in points, long eyelashes, ragged jackets. They surveyed the crowd of wanderers with an expression Lyla could only call _hungry._

And Kasbeel…relaxed, a tension she hadn’t noticed going out of his shoulders. He tugged the brim of his fedora lower over his eyes, turning away from the demons.

Wait.

“Where did you get that hat?” Lyla demanded.

“I always had it,” he claimed, then held out a straw hat with a wide brim. “Here’s yours. Stay quiet, don’t look them in the eye, if you can help it, and they shouldn’t notice you.”

“What? I’ve never heard of demons having a weakness like that.” She tugged the hat as low as she could, and noticed for the first time dirt and mud smudged across Kasbeel’s suit. When had that happened?

“Don’t be absurd. It’s not them, I’m shielding you.”

“You what?” Perhaps he was insane after all.

“Sssh! I need to concentrate.”

“Well, look at this,” said one of the demons, smiling and rubbing his hands. He looked…pretty, in a way, if she hadn’t known what he was. “We’ve got some new recruits. Well done, Bob.”

“It’s Rae, actually, my lord,” said the leader of the Marked ones.

“I don’t care.” The demon waved a hand, and suddenly there were several enormous crates of food. Even from where she was standing, Lyla could see tins of beans and soup, vegetables with a little green in them, and by the stars – actual _meat._ Her stomach growled as she watched the Marked ones gather up their bounty and run back behind the barricade of cars, leaving the wanderers to the demons. She wasn’t the only one, either. All around them, people moaned, shuffling closer.

“Alright, wait your turns,” the lead demon said, as four identical faces circled the crowd.

Even though it probably didn’t mean anything, Lyla tugged her hat down again. “Why do they all look the same?” she wondered.

“Legion,” Kasbeel whispered back. “Foot soldiers of Hell. Though I believe they prefer to be called _Eric.”_

Yes, definitely insane. Benny shifted on her shoulder, starting to wake up. Lyla rubbed his back and hushed him.

“Well,” one of the Erics began. “I’m sure you’ve all heard the sales pitch by now. Join us, rule the world when we win. Palaces and kingdoms and wealth beyond your dreams. The offer hasn’t changed, though,” he chuckled, “at the rate we’re going, it’s going to be billions of very small kingdoms. Still, better to rule than to serve, right?” He grinned, as if waiting for a laugh.

“You always say that,” someone called. “You haven’t won yet.” There was a little murmuring, but not much. Politics. No one really cared about politics anymore.

“Well, haven’t lost either,” another Eric picked up the thread. “And let’s face it, it’s a better deal than the other side’s going to give you.”

“We don’t want to join anyone,” another voice said, high and scared. “We want to be left alone!”

Benny’s eyes fluttered open. “Lyla? ‘M hungry.”

“Shhhh, not yet.” She held him closer, like a bundle of twigs wrapped in cloth.

“Alright, I can see you’re not forward thinkers,” one of the Erics said, spreading his arms. “Pity that, but we can’t all be management material. How’s this deal? Join us now, and you’ll eat tonight. Fed and protected, from now on.” There was another murmur at that. “You’ve heard the rumors, well, it’s true. Once you get your Mark, the angels can’t touch you. And even our most enthusiastic brethren won’t harm you. Just what you want. Left alone.”

“Preposterous,” Kasbeel muttered, but he wasn’t the only one. And not all the voices were as skeptical as his. A few of them rose above the crowd, directing towards the Erics.

“Do we have to fight?”

“How often does the food come?”

“Can we change our minds?”

“What about a place to stay? Can you give us that?”

The Erics responded to each, enthusiastically, pointing, waving for people to come join them. Lyla wasn’t listening to them.

“’M hungry,” Benny said, his eyes glazed, barely cracking open. “My head hurts. ‘M cold…”

She pressed her lips to his forehead. He was burning up.

“Benny? Can you hear me? We can eat soon, I promise, you just have to hold on.”

He mumbled something, but she couldn’t even hear the words.

She pressed her forehead against his and whispered, and Benny nodded back.

Lyla stepped forward.

“What are you doing?” Kasbeel grabbed her arm. “Don’t be a fool – they’re asking for your _soul.”_

“So?” she snapped, jerking free, not even trying to keep her voice down. “Why should I care? What’s my soul ever done for me? I don’t need a soul, I need _food._ Benny needs _food.”_

“I can help you!”

“Really? How?” She pulled off the hat and threw it at his feet. “You’ve been walking with us for hours and all you do is talk nonsense and – and act like you’ve no idea what’s going on when you obviously do.” He winced, taking half a step back. “Fine, you know what? I don’t care. You do what you need to do to survive. Make people pity you, pretend to be an idiot. But don’t you judge me.”

“Listen, Lyla,” he reached for her hand, and she jerked it away, pulling Benny tighter into her arms. “I know, things are hard. It might seem like – like avoiding suffering is the most important thing –”

“Don’t start with me!” Lyla was all but screaming now, backing away. “Pain now, reward later? Is that your story? Just like those self-righteous angels. Those – those bastards destroy our homes, our families, our lives and they want us to _thank_ them! And smile and get out of the way and ask them to do it again! No fucking thank you!” She glared at his clothes, his ample waistline, his soft hands with perfectly shaped nails, not so much as a chip. “I don’t know where you’re from. I don’t care, but out here in reality? We know we’re not going to make it to the end of the war. So all I can do is make sure my brother doesn’t suffer now. And for that, I’ll do anything.”

She marched away, and never looked back.

“Oi, you,” she shouted at one of the Erics, still trying to convince someone in the front row. Her stomach trembled with more than hunger and exhaustion. He turned to face her, and there was a gleam in his pretty eyes that made her want to scream like a child. “We’ll do it. We’re ready. You can take my brother, too, right?”

“Absolutely,” the demon smiled with too many teeth. “And what are your names?”

“Lyla,” she said, forcing down her fear. “Lyla Wilson. And this is Benny.”

“Well, Lyla, are you ready to swear your soul to the forces of Satan, forsaking the Light of God and the protection of the angels, forevermore?”

“Sure. Yeah. Long as there’s food.”

“And how about you, Benny?” The demon leaned forward, trying to meet his eyes. “Are you ready, too?”

Benny ran his tongue over his cracked lips. Lyla hadn’t even noticed how bad they’d gotten. It was just normal now. “Does it hurt?”

“Only a little,” the demon said, smiling again. “Just a moment of pain, and then you’ll be safe.”

“It’s alright, Benny,” Lyla said soothingly. “I’ll go first.” Benny swallowed, and nodded.

“You have to say it out loud,” the demon told him.

“I – I’ll do it. Whatever Lyla does.”

“Good enough.” The demon reached out a hand and rested it on Lyla’s cheek, pressing the heel of it into her cheekbone. She felt lightheaded – weak – very warm. Her legs wobbled, nearly giving out, and something sharp stabbed into her, reached deep, pulled –

And it was done. No flash of light or dark. No soul rending scream. Just like that, she was damned.

She traced a finger across her cheekbone, up to the hinge of her jaw. She could feel the Mark, slightly raised skin. Traced the pattern, identical to all the other Marked ones. It didn’t even itch.

There was a sound behind her, a gentle breath. She turned to see Kasbeel, at the front of the crowd, blue eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. He was shaking his head.

Well. Who the hell did he think he was, judging her?

The demon smiled at Benny. “Your turn.”

Lyla nodded. “It barely hurts at all, and I’ll be right here, alright?”

But the last word was drowned out by a bright, rich note blaring across the blasted plains. Not the wailing siren from before. This was clear, bright.

Trumpets.

“Lyla!” Kasbeel’s voice suddenly sounded choked. When she looked back, he was staggering back in the crowd, crouching down as if in pain.

“Is that –” one of the demons started, looking straight at him.

“There’s more!” another shouted, pointing in the sky. The clouds split open, and for the first time in _years,_ Lyla saw the sun, saw blue sky, and from that rent came the bright wings of angels – three, five, seven, a dozen of them at least, floating down like feathers.

“Get out of here!” The demons scattered, swallowed up by the Earth the moment their feet touched it.

And not just them. The wanderers broke apart, racing back up the motorway, some running onto the cursed soil to fall, shouting in pain. A few leapt over the barricade of cars, taking their chances against the clubs of the Marked ones.

Lyla held Benny tight, not sure where to run, what to do.

“The children,” a familiar voice called. “All of them. And that woman over there, and those three. None of the others.”

Angels flowed across the sky, landing among the crowd. The people they touched fell limp immediately, to be picked up carefully, like dolls.

A rustle of feathers behind Lyla. She turned, slowly, as if in a dream, and looked up into the kind, warm smile of Kasbeel.

“Hello, my dear,” he said, sheathing his flaming sword.

He plucked her brother out of her unresisting arms.

“Lyla?” Benny mumbled.

“Shhh, don’t worry.” He rested a hand on Benny’s forehead. “How about a little nap?”

He collapsed in the angel’s arms, looking so peaceful, so frail.

“I know who you are,” she mumbled. “The stories. The…the Guardian of Humanity.”

“Yes. My reputation does proceed me.”

“Please,” Lyla begged, “I – I have to take care of him. Don’t…”

“Not anymore. Don’t worry, he’ll be safe with me, as all innocents are. But you…” he brushed a finger across the Mark on her jaw. “Well. Too late for some.”

Enormous white wings unfurled behind him, and another clear trumpet note shattered the air. As one, the angels rose into the sky and vanished through the hole, taking their light, the sky, and Lyla’s brother with them.

And Lyla collapsed onto the empty street.

\--

Aziraphale sat up, shaking his head to clear the last echoes of the trumpet. He’d been helpless to do anything, except stop himself.

Stop himself from _joining_ them.

There was only one thing that could override his mind like that. And the face of the angel that had spoken to Lyla, that had taken Benny…

He climbed to his feet, shuffled over to her, where she still sat, staring into nothing. She looked even younger than he’d thought. Not even sixteen. A child herself.

“Lyla,” he called, reaching for her shoulder. “Lyla, my dear –”

With a scream, she surged to her feet, tackling him, pounding weak fists against his chest. “You bastard! You fucking bastard! I saw his face! It was you! You!”

“It – I know this is – I swear, it wasn’t –”

“I know! Same face, just like the demons.” She hit him on both shoulders, throwing her whole weight behind it. He still barely felt a thing. “But that means you’re one of them! The whole fucking time you were one of them! I walked with you! I trusted you!”

“I’m not!” He held up his hands, but didn’t fight back. When he spoke, it was in as gentle a voice as he could manage. “I swear to you. I used to be, but I’m not. Not anymore.”

“Really? You don’t have a big pair of fluffy white wings? You can’t just – just make food appear? _We were starving!”_

“I wouldn’t have let you starve, but you were still walking. I had to let you –”

“Don’t _say_ it! Don’t say I had to figure it out for myself. You could have fed us! You could have gotten us past these assholes –” she pointed at the barricade, but the Marked ones were all gone. All except for her. “You could have _stopped me.”_

“It was your choice.”

Lyla screamed, and screamed, and screamed, fingers tangled in her hair, swinging her head, only breaking to gasp for more breath. He waited, until finally her voice broke, and she sobbed.

Aziraphale pulled her into his arms and held her as she cried.

“Why?” she managed between gasping sobs. “Why did you even come here?”

“I’m sorry. I truly am. I wanted to understand what you were going through. I needed to observe. I never planned to let things get so out of hand. I just – I wanted to know.”

“Well, now you know.” She pulled away, wiping her eyes. “You going to go back? Tell your clones all about it? Have a great big laugh at the stupid humans?”

“I told you. I left them, a long time ago. I am _not_ on their side.”

“Could you,” she gulped, looking away. “Could you have stopped them? Stopped…him?”

He shuddered, remembering the way the trumpet had reverberated through his mind. “That sound. That is…it’s how Heaven delivers orders. It’s very powerful, but it can be resisted.”

It shouldn’t have been so hard. Angels had to accept the orders, had to allow them into their minds, surrender the control to heaven. Aziraphale had done no such thing.

_He_ hadn’t. The other him – the other Aziraphale – had consented so wholeheartedly to what was going on, it had overpowered him. Feedback in his mind, Heaven intruding where he had hoped never to find it again. Would it happen again? Would he be able to resist it? He’d very nearly flown off with them in the end.

“Lyla,” he said, gently putting a hand on her shoulder. “I wish I could have stopped it. But I will find out where they took your brother, I will get him back. I swear.”

“And hand him over to a damned soul?”

“You love him,” he told her firmly. “That’s all that matters.”

He looked at the brand on her jaw, the twisted curving sigil of the Fallen. To his eyes it was unique. Each Marked human had their own, just as each demon did. Hers was on the opposite side as Crowley’s, and just a little further down.

Had he kissed it, that morning, when he tried to wake Crowley up? He usually did, but his demon had been stubborn, right side of his face still buried in the pillows.

He found himself blinking away tears. _Crowley is here. Somewhere. You just have to find him._ Find Crowley. Find Benny. Help the humans. Avoid the angels…

“It’s too late, isn’t it?” He could see the shock settling into Lyla’s eyes. The defeat. “He’s gone.”

“Oh, no, my dear.” He reached up a hand and brushed her Mark. “It’s never too late.”

\--

Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Earth, Guardian of Humanity, led his troops over the wall of New Eden.

Inside, the fields and forests sprawled, pristine, perfect. A little more cultivated than the original Eden, of course, the land had forgotten how to provide painlessly, but it was learning. Just as the humans would learn to accept it, to give up their ties to the outside world, to be as they were meant to be.

His mind was troubled today. In the midst of the rescue, separating the Elect from the chaff, he had felt something. Some interference with his orders, something that had made him almost forget the mission, placing itself between him and the wisdom of Heaven. He’d almost wanted to stay and investigate, but he knew the importance of his work.

No one else could do what Aziraphale did.

He placed his new ward carefully on the grass, running a hand across his stomach. He could heal most of the ill effects of hunger, the rest would come with good, healthy meals. He glanced around for something to offer; every edible plant in the world grew here, row on row, always in fruit, always ready to harvest.

The boy’s eyes fluttered open. “Kasbeel?” he asked.

“No, child,” he said, beaming. “My name is Aziraphale.”

With a strangled cry, the boy’s eyes flew open. He scrambled away. It was a common reaction.

“Don’t worry, my dear fellow,” he said. “You are safe here in New Eden. Everything you could want.” He squeezed the walnuts in his hand until the shells cracked, and held the nuts out.

The boy swatted away the offering. “I _want_ my sister.”

His jaw clenched, remembering her face, the Mark on her cheek. “She made her choice. It’s too late for her. But you, my boy –”

“No. No!” He sprang to his feet, seeming surprised at his own energy. “I won’t! I won’t stay here! You can’t keep me!”

“Come along, don’t be childish. No one has ever escaped –”

“Lyla!” He boy shouted, already running into the fields. “Lyla!”

His voice joined the chorus, the humans calling constantly for their wives, their husbands, their mothers, their friends. But they would learn. One day, they would learn.

This was where they belonged.

This was for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This was a tough one to write, and the next one was even tougher (and twice as long).
> 
> I've first-drafted up through prompt 20, and I'll see what more I can do this weekend. I was hoping to finish in the next day or two, but there's a LOT going on!
> 
> I am...REALLY sorry about Aziraphale here. You'll learn more soon.


	15. Through the Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of the Alternate Universe's Aziraphale and Crowley is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry.
> 
> (CW: brief female-presenting Crowley with she/her pronouns, and the ending will stab you in the heart)

_Eden – 4004 BC_

Aziraphale stood on the wall of Eden, watching the Man and Woman walk across the desert. Dark clouds rolled in, carrying something called _rain,_ a _storm._ He’d worried about it when he’d first heard, but now he had more to worry about.

He’d spotted the lion.

He never should have let them out.

Oh, he’d been ordered to cast the humans out of their Paradise, and to stop them ever returning. Those were the exact words. _Take this sword and make sure the humans never even think of coming back._

But perhaps if he’d pleaded, intervened, made their case…

_This is for the best._ He clutched the flaming sword, the warmth of it taking some of the chill from the rapidly cooling air. _It’s for the best._

If he kept repeating it, he would believe it soon.

A noise along the wall pulled him back, a soft sliding that seemed to echo through the air.

He glanced left – just the trees tossing in the wind, as if the storm was taking a deep breath.

And to the right –

The Serpent.

It coiled beside him, just beyond the light of the sword, an enormous black rope, twisted over and across itself, golden eyes staring after the humans as they crossed the desert. The scales of its neck and belly were red as human blood. Its tongue flicked out to taste the air and it reared its head higher than Aziraphale’s.

And it kept rising, body sliding across itself, taking on a form that was more human-shaped. The end result was…nearly correct. Tall, narrow, black flecks of scale here and there. Hair red as blood, in long curling ringlets. Black robes, identical to Aziraphale’s but torn and ragged at the bottom. But the eyes remained unchanged – yellow and angry, squinting in the darkening sunlight, and the wings were black as a sky without stars.

“Well. That was a perfect disaster. I hope your lot is proud of themselves.”

Aziraphale shuffled his feet, fighting the urge to back away. This was _his_ wall, _his_ Eastern Gate. He held the sword before him and tried to look more threatening. “I don’t know what you mean. Nothing that happened here was our doing.”

The demon – obviously a demon, he could see the sigil of the Fallen just above his jaw on the left side of his face – turned to glare at him. “Nothing – so you think that was _fair?_ That it was _justified?_ One piece of fruit and you throw them out to die?”

“They’re not going to die,” Aziraphale said, watching the lion intently. “Not yet. There’s – there’s a Plan, you see.”

“Is there really? Is that great big hungry cat part of it?”

“I don’t…know the details, no one does. It’s ineffable.” The humans hadn’t spotted the lion yet. They were still clutching each other’s hands, scrambling across sand dunes in the growing gloom. “But so long as we trust in the Plan, it will all work out. You’ll see.” When the lion crouched, it seemed to vanish into the sand. “It’s for the best.”

Clutching the hilt of his sword, Aziraphale wondered how fast a lion was. The ones in the Garden simply lounged around, sunning themselves beside lambs. The ones in the world were supposed to be dangerous.

The Woman lost her balance and started sliding down the dune. The Man caught her, pulling her upright. He knelt down to check her for injuries. The lion crouched lower, unmoving.

“In case you’re wondering,” the demon started again, “its not taking a nap. That’s how they hunt.” He leaned a little closer. “It’s not pretty. You probably could have done them a favor and cut them down with the sword yourself.” Firelight glinted off golden eyes. “Be a lot quicker.”

“This is your fault,” Aziraphale snapped.

“My fault? I’m not the one who threw them into the desert for eating a snack!”

“That tree was forbidden! They knew that perfectly well. If you hadn’t told them to try and apple, they wouldn’t be in this mess, would they?”

The demon flared his wings. “Maybe your lot should have thought of that before you stuck a great big forbidden tree in the middle of Paradise! If you didn’t want the humans trying it, all you had to do was put it outside the blessed wall!”

“If they _followed the rules_ that wouldn’t be necessary!” They would learn. Now that they knew the price of disobedience, they would learn.

A crack of thunder overhead. Aziraphale managed not to flinch – he’d read the pamphlets, he knew what it was, but hadn’t expected that sort of _volume,_ the way it echoed across the land.

The demon sidled closer, despite the flames between them, until his black wing almost brushed Aziraphale’s white one. Down below, the humans clung to each other.

“You want to know something?” The demon’s voice was soft now, strangely silken. “I didn’t know anything about the apple when I came up. They just told me to go make trouble. I tried everything. Ripping up flowers, breaking beaver dams. Tried to get the animals to fight each other. Even broke open the wall to let everything escape.”

“I know. I saw your handiwork.” Aziraphale told him coldly. “The only things that left through it were the humans, after I sent them away. Even your actions served the Plan in the end.” He’d need to patch up that hole before the other angels noticed.

The demon made a noise of disgust. “That’s not my point – the point is, nothing I did made any difference.”

“That’s obviously because you aren’t very good at your job. I, on the other hand, was doing flawlessly until you came along.”

“Flawlessly?” The demon spat the word. “You let me right in. Not a very effective Guard if you ask me.”

“Guardian, not Guard,” Aziraphale corrected. “My orders were to…to keep them safe…” The humans had started walking again, right towards the waiting claws of the lion. Aziraphale pressed his left hand to his mouth, waiting.

“And now you’re just going to let this happen? How is that keeping them safe?”

“Orders change,” Aziraphale said around his hand. “Now I’m to – to make sure they don’t return.”

“Well, then.” The demon watched the lion shift, preparing to pounce. “Suppose this will take care of that.”

A bright line of lightning split the sky, and the demon ducked closer, practically under Aziraphale’s wing.

“I beg your pardon!” He stepped back, flipping the wing away, raising the sword to point at the demon’s chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The demon’s lips twisted. “Nothing, I suppose. Going back to Hell to report in.” He stepped away, arms wide. “Good luck with the next batch of humans.” A dark light surrounded him as he shifted back to Serpent form. “By the way, I’m probably going to get a commendation for this. _Good job corrupting the humans, Crawly._ Maybe even a promotion. What’s your side going to give you?”

And then he was gone, slithering over the side of the wall, vanishing into the earth below.

In the distance, the lion leapt, claws extended –

\--

_Mesopotamia – 3004 BC_

A crack of thunder, echoing across the floodplain. A pair of enormous long-legged birds trotted past Crawly, heading for the boat. More animals behind them, horses, mice, rabbits…

The rumors were true, it seemed.

He moved through the crowd, asking questions. _Who built this boat? Why here? Why so many animals?_ He got the name of the ship builders, not much else.

Already the air pressure had changed. Rain was coming, as it never did in this part of the world.

For a thousand years, Crawly had lived among the humans, delighted by their unlikely survival, their clever inventions, their endless, endless ideas. He doubted Heaven was quite so pleased, and it looked like the reckoning had finally arrived.

Up ahead, a pale shape leaned against the fence, watching. An angel, no, _the_ angel, if he wasn’t mistaken. The smug bastard from the wall.

Wasn’t this a day for surprises?

Crawly sauntered up behind him, slipping into a bit of space to the angel’s right. No sword this time, at least. “Well. Fancy seeing you here, angel.”

He immediately stiffened, sliding a little further away along the fence. “Why have you come here, fiend? More mischief?” The angel sniffed. “I’m rather too busy to deal with your nonsense today.”

Crawly rolled his eyes. “Busy standing by and watching, as usual.” The angel’s fists tightened around the fence posts. Must have struck a nerve with that one. “So what’s the story? Word is, God’s angry again. What did the humans do this time? Bake a forbidden pie? Wear the wrong colored robes in a temple?”

“That is _highly_ classified,” the angel said, watching two camels walking past. They seemed particularly unimpressed with the arrangements. “Suffice to say, it’s much worse than a little misunderstanding.”

“Classified. Do the humans even now why they’re being punished?” The angel’s silence was very telling. “Do you?”

“I don’t ask those sorts of questions,” he said, tilting his head back to glare up his nose at Crawly. “But we have made the humans fully aware of what we expect from them. As you know perfectly well, since you’ve been tempting them into all manner of sinful, depraved acts, in every city in the world.”

Crawly narrowed his eyes. “And how am I meant to be doing that? There’s tens of thousands of people in the floodplain alone. Millions around the world. Am I supposed to visit each one every day? Micromanage their lives? That’s your lot’s job, I don’t have time for that sort of one-on-one nonsense.”

“If not you, some other demon.”

“Really not how it works.” But the angel clearly had no interest in listening. He walked away, pushing through the crowd. Crawly would have let him, but the next animals to pass were a pair of lions, trotting along on lead ropes like a couple of well-trained dogs.

Something wasn’t right.

“What’s the punishment this time?” Crawly wove through the crowd, trying to keep up. “Yeah, lots of rain, I can see that. What’s the endgame? Destroy their homes? Their crops?” No response. “Why all the animals on a boat, angel? What are you planning?”

With a sigh, the angel turned back. “We’re…” he glanced at the boat again. “I am authorized to tell you that Heaven has chosen this village as an example. To remind the rest of the humans who keeps them safe.” He rubbed his hands together, probably in anticipation. “Something the others can’t ignore.”

“Something…” it clicked in Crawly’s head. “You’re going to kill them? Drown them all? For what? A few broken rules?”

“More than a few!” He dusted a hand across the fence. “They need to learn to obey. It has all been carefully planned. The site. The number who will die. The chosen survivors – everything has been selected for maximum effect. This…sacrifice is necessary.” He nodded his head. “It’s for the best.”

The sound of laughter, genuinely happy giggles, seeming so out of place in this dismal scene. Crawly looked at a corner of the fence, where three children played a game of chase, weaving around the posts and the legs of the adults. “Angel. Tell me the kids are going on the boat.”

“The loss of innocent lives is an essential part of our message.” Thunder roared overhead. “Once they know we are serious, they’ll fall in line.”

“You can’t believe that.” Crawly grabbed the angel’s shoulders, spinning him around. He needed to understand. “Nothing you do here is going to change anything! These people – those kids – will die for _no reason.”_

“Unhand me.” The angel grabbed his arm, twisted, and in a flash Crawly was sprawled on the ground, seeing stars flash against the clouds above. “You’ll see. This is for the best.”

He walked away as the first drops of rain began to fall.

\--

_Golgotha – AD 33_

Another desert. Another disaster.

This one only effected a single person, directly at least, but wasn’t that enough?

Aziraphale didn’t _want_ to see anyone harmed. If they just obeyed, no one would need to be harmed.

He needed to find a way to get through to them.

A flash of red, somewhere in the crowd. Aziraphale knew what he would see, even before his eyes turned from the gruesome scene, tracking the dark-gowned figure.

He looked different, but the angry slit-pupil eyes glared across the crowd, same as ever.

What cause did _he_ have to blame Aziraphale? If he had never interfered – if the humans had never left the Garden – no part of this would ever have happened.

Crawly’s eyes met his. The demon shook his head and turned away.

Aziraphale faced again the scene before him, the Cross rising against the darkened sky, the man gasping in pain.

It was for the best. It was for the best.

\--

_Rome – Eight years later_

Crowley stepped into the dark popina,[1] glad for a moment’s relief from the sun. It was still hot inside, the air heavy with the smell of humans pressed close together, but at least it wasn’t so blasted _bright._

“What’ll you have?” the bartender glared at him, taking in the unusual gown, the circular brooch, the silver laurel crown in his red hair, the black bits of glass to hide his eyes.

Then she turned back to watch some men playing at dice in the corner, voices rowdy. Crowley wasn’t even close to the strangest thing she’d seen.

“Whatever’s drinkable. Leave the jug.” It would take several amphorae of alcohol to erase the last few days from his mind. And he still hadn’t managed to find a single depravity the Emperor hadn’t already indulged of his own volition, and worse than Crowley could have imagined.

Most days, he liked humans. This was not one of those days.

“Er, pardon me,” came a voice from his left, just as he took his first sip. “It’s…it’s Crawly, isn’t it?”

At the sound of the name, his stomach clenched, already-bitter wine turning sour in his mouth. He swallowed and turned to the angel, brilliant white toga hanging from the golden brooch, who smiled at him insincerely.

“Crowley, actually,” he snapped, returning to his drink.

“Oh! Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry. I’ve been getting it wrong all this time.”

_Getting it wrong?_ He’d never heard the angel say his name, not once. He didn’t even know how he had learned it, but those celestial bastards had their ways. Maybe if Crowley refused to respond, he’d take the hint?

“Oh, you must forgive me, I really meant no offense –”

“Relax,” Crowley grunted, really not able to handle that look of distress, even just out of the corner of his eye. “You didn’t get it wrong, I changed it.”

“Changed it?” The angel slid onto the stool next to him. “You can do that? They just let you?”

“Not much they can do to stop me.” Except refuse to call him by his chosen name, which was what most demons did. But he would wear them down in time.

To his left, the angel was pouring himself a cup of wine from Crowley’s jug. “Oh, no, please. Help yourself.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.” He took a sip, clearly rolling it around on his tongue, then swallowed with difficulty. “Interesting flavor,” he coughed. “Very, er, robust.”

“It’s cheap.” Hell still had trouble with the concept of money. Some jobs he had more than he could ever use, others he had to make do.

“Well, it certainly is…let’s say, bracing.” The angel tapped his cup, glancing nervously at Crowley. “So…what have you been up to? Still a demon?”

Crowley slammed up cup down. “Still…what sort of question is that?” He jabbed a finger towards the sigil mark on the left side of his face. “Did this vanish when I wasn’t looking? Suddenly develop a holy glow?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“You _suppose_ not?” Crowley hadn’t had a good day and this nasty…prying…cold-hearted angel was exactly what he didn’t need. “So, what, did you think I might have been fired? Not keeping up my quota of souls for the Dark Lords? I mean, Hell doesn’t exactly sack us for that. There is a sack involved,” he conceded, draining his cup and filling it again. “And hammers. Red hot pokers. Really, it’s a great bonding experience for everyone. But then they let you out again and it’s back to work.”

“I…didn’t realize…it was a joke…”

“Oh, a _joke._ Is Ascending something angels _joke_ about?” The word twisted painfully off his tongue. Demons didn’t talk about it openly, the possibility of returning to Heaven. The longing to feel complete again. What they would give to feel their Grace flow through them just one more time. But there were always whispers, in the darkest corners of Hell.

Crowley didn’t know how he felt about it. And it was too painful to even talk about right now. “How about Falling?” he demanded, changing tactics. “Is that funny, too? _There goes another, hope the sulfur pits are still hot._ They are, by the way, we keep them at just about four hundred fifty degrees. Haven’t had any newcomers in a while, but we’re always read for the next one.”

The angel looked paler than ever.

“How about you?” Crowley pressed on, because if he didn’t, something would snap inside. “Still an angel?”

He hadn’t meant anything by it, really. He’d hoped the angel would be offended, leave him alone, maybe think twice about snide comments in the future.

What he hadn’t expected was a cry of pain, the clay cup tumbling from shaking fingers to shatter on the floor. The angel pressed his fingers to his lips.

“Are you alright?”

The angel nodded his head, eyes squeezed shut.

_Not my business,_ Crowley thought, glaring at his mug. _Demons have our problems. Angels have theirs. None of my concern._

Except.

Except the angel had come over to talk to him. Rudely, managing to push all the buttons Crowley didn’t know he had, but still, he’d come over. And he hadn’t left, even when Crowley was rude back.

“Alright. Out with it.”

“I beg your pardon?” The angel waved a hand over the ceramic pieces, hurriedly reassembling them into some sort of abstract sculpture.

“Angel. You saw your enemy in a popina. You didn’t slip away, you didn’t call for back up, you certainly didn’t draw your sword. You sat down and started talking. Could it be you’ve got something you want to say?” He waved a hand over the messy pile of clay, turning it back into a cup. “Something you can’t risk getting back to your side?”

The guilty look told Crowley everything he needed to know. He refilled both mugs. “Whatever it is, I’m not going to tell anyone. Got no one to tell who would even care. So. Like I said.” He handed one cup to the angel. “Out with it.”

He turned the cup in plump hands, wearing an expression that might be a smile, but looked more like a frown. “How…how do you do it?”

“Do what? You’ll have to be a lot more specific.”

“How do you get the humans to do what you want?”

For the first time in four thousand years, Crowley very nearly blinked. “Wow. Straight to the trade secrets, huh?”

“I mean it,” the angel said, a note of pleading suddenly in his voice. “We’ve tried everything. We gave them rules, clearly outlining what they were supposed to do. It got…complicated. Then we tried to simplify. It got _more_ complicated. We’ve punished them. Rewarded them. Sent them personal messengers and laws engraved in stone. Then _you_ come along, and they forget everything. Turn to sin like _that.”_

“I seem to recall you once said I’m not good at my job,” Crowley said with a triumphant smile, taking a sip of the alleged wine.

“I’ll admit I was wrong,” the angel said, so sincerely, Crowley spat out his wine in surprise. The angel tapped the jug with his fingers, waved them over the cups, then tasted his own again. “That’s better. And I did think so at that time, it’s true. But for all you said you tried everything else first, it only took you two hours in the garden to ruin all our plans. Not the Ineffable Plan, of course,” he corrected quickly. “But everything we thought we knew changed in an instant. How?”

_He was actually listening,_ Crowley thought, a little stunned. No one really listened to him, except to tell him to stop overthinking everything, stop asking questions. He lifted his cup again, found the liquid inside had been transformed into something light, sweet, with just a hint of bite at the back of the throat. It occurred to him that the angel hadn’t needed to change any wine except what was in his own cup. “How do you think I do it?”

“Well,” the angel fidgeted excitedly, a shy but genuine smile spreading across his face. “I have theories. At first, I assumed there was some sort of trigger for their obedience, and you worked it out first. Something like the Trumpets of Heaven that allowed you to put the idea directly into their minds.”

“Trumpets don’t work like that,” Crowley pointed out, going for another drink. “Otherwise, we never would have been able to rebel. If you don’t like what you’re ordered to do, they aren’t hard to ignore.”

The angel frowned distastefully. “I don’t know what _liking_ an order has to do with obedience. But in any case, I realized that wasn’t it. Humans aren’t designed for angelic obedience; they need to be _convinced_ to do what’s right. So, you’ve worked out how to do it. Some rhetorical strategy or reward guaranteed to get them to do as you ask. Something that’s more effective than any threat or promise my side can make.”

“Very well-reasoned,” Crowley said, finishing his cup.

The angel sat up proudly. “Why, thank you.”

“Completely wrong, though.” Crowley refilled his mug and considered the angel carefully. He could leave it at that. There were things he’d never told another demon, never told anyone. He shouldn’t consider telling an enemy.

But he wanted to say it. Wanted to know how the angel would react.

“I’ve told you before,” he finally said. “I don’t do anything at all.”

“Really, Crowley,” the angel scoffed. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

“it’s true.” He shifted on his stool, leaning closer. “Back in the Garden, you want to know how I found out about the apples?” The angel nodded. “I slithered up, and the Woman was already talking to the Man about them. They’d been picking apples and gathering them for days, asking each other if it would really grant knowledge equal to God and the angels. All I had to say was _yeah, probably.”_

“So you did talk them into it!”

“I mean, barely?” Crowley shrugged, sitting up straight again. “If I didn’t say anything, they’d have tried for themselves in a day or two.”

“But surely,” the angel moved his stool closer. “Surely _since_ then you’ve developed some sort of process.”

“Eh, generally Hell has some particular thing they want me to get a human to do. I’ve tried logic, threats, tricking them. I’ve even outright asked. Sometimes it works, sometimes they do something worse than Hell could come up with on our own, and sometimes, despite everything I do, they _still_ do the right thing.”

“How often?”

Crowley tilted his head. “About half the time. I throw everything I can at them, and it works about half the time. Probably when they were going to do it anyway.” He jabbed a finger into the table. “That’s why I say: nothing we do matters. It’s all down to them, every time.”

“What do you mean, _we?”_ the angel demanded, jumping to his feet. “How many of you are there, running around this world, trying to undermine my side?”

“Oh, you know that’s not what I mean.” Crowley leaned back in his stool with a smirk. “There are only two agents here on Earth, you and me. I know I’ve never convinced any human to do anything they weren’t already willing to do, and I’ll bet you came over here because you thought the same. We’re just here so Heaven and Hell can keep pretending they know what they’re doing. Act like they have some control over the situation, but we know it’s all a lie.”

I beg your pardon!” The angel’s voice broke through the background roar of the crowd, causing several humans to glance their way. Soft hands tugged at the bright white toga, pulling it straight. “I am most certainly not – not – no! My job has a purpose! I was put on this world to bring peace and order and safety and – and – and my very presence inspires goodness!”

Crowley finished his cup. “You know that isn’t true, or you’d never have spoken to me in the first place.” He waved to the bartender, picking up the jug, then turned to leave in a swirl of black fabric. “Face it, angel, you’re as useless as I am.”

“I am nothing like you!” The angel’s voice was high and strained in the sudden silence. “I am not _useless!”_

Crowley spun back, ready to tear the angel apart, but instead found himself meeting a pair of blue-grey eyes filled with pain and fear.

After all, useless demons were punished and reassigned. Angels with no purpose were discarded, or worse.

Throwing us head back to look at the ceiling, Crowley ground his teeth in thought. “Look. Angel.” He took a few steps back and lowered his voice. The humans were beginning to drift back to their conversations, at least. “I’m not saying _you’re_ useless. Just the job they gave you.”

“Pardon me for not seeing the distinction.”

“There is one. I swear. You just…have to accept you can’t control humans. Keep an eye on them, try to nudge them when you can, claim credit when they do the stuff you’re meant to inspire and just…ignore the rest.”

“How?” His voice was pleading now. “I was made to protect them, to guide them! How can I just _ignore_ what they do?”

“Gotta figure that out for yourself.” Crowley waggled the jug of wine in his hand. “I will say, enjoying the pleasures of the world helps. A lot.”

“Pleasures?” The angel’s lip curled distastefully.

“Yeah, you know. Food. Drink. Sleep. Music. And if you find an attractive human, well, that opens a whole other range of options.”

“Angels don’t…do those sorts of things.”

“Don’t they? You certainly know your wines.”

The angel adjusted the drape of his toga, chewing on his lip. “I…I have thought…there’s a new restaurant I’ve been meaning to try. Oysters. They’re supposed to be quite remarkable.”

“Sounds like the place to start.” Crowley turned to the door with a wave. “Not really my scene, though. I’m going to find a place to finish this jug and maybe pick up another –”

“I have a place.”

Funny how the world kept spinning after that. The crowd didn’t even pause in their conversation.

Crowley looked back over his shoulder.

“I’ve been in Rome for some weeks.” The angel moved towards him, one cautious step at a time. “I have a set of rooms. Really…quite nice. Several more amphorae of wine. If you’re interested.” He shuffled his feet, standing an arm’s length away. “You can tell me more about these distractions. I…don’t want to be alone with my thoughts right now. And I think…I might have more to say.”

Crowley crossed the last step between them. “You know, angel. I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

“Aziraphale. Angel of the Eastern Gate. Principality of Earth. Guardian of Humanity.”

\--

_Later that night_

“Siz months,” Crowley declaimed, waving his cup of wine, pacing around the atrium. He paused again to study a potted plant. He could see yellowed leaf spots developing, even though it was clearly receiving more than enough sun. He jabbed a finger at it threateningly. “Siz months workin’ with the general on this whole thingy.”

“Which thingy?” Aziraphale sat on the far side of the impluvium, his bare feet dangling into the rainwater pool. He watched the ripples his toes made with a smile.

They were on the third amphora now, possibly the fourth. Crowley felt very relaxed, very open, unable to keep from sharing the thousands of ideas that ran through his head every day. And Aziraphale continued to listen. It was astounding.

“The thingy. Battle thingy. Plan. Take your boats and hit the other boats with them. Pwwffffffft,” Crowley waved his hands, making what he thought was the sound of two ships colliding at sea. Wine splashed across the floor.

“Not very safe,” Aziraphale decided after some thought.

“S’abattle. Not s’posed to be safe. Anyway. Was a bad plan. Cuz my side wanted them to lose.”

“Why did it take sis moths?” Aziraphale twisted his lips. “Sizzle mons…I don’ want to brag, but _I_ can make a bad plan in under a nhour.”

“Angel. It is. So hard. To lose a battle on purpose.” He slumped against a column dramatically. “Harder’n trying to win. Too many things can go right. Gotta think of errything.” His cup was empty now. How did that happen? He wandered over to the amphora and refilled it, starting a fresh one for Aziraphale. “So. So. Six months. Day comes, all the boats all lined up…an’ the chicken won’ eat!”

Aziraphale nodded his head, then frowned. “Why’z the chicken on a boat?”

“Think she was a priest. An’ the general says they won’ fight until the chicken eats.” Holding the two cups, Crowley carefully circled around the pool towards the angel, who sat with his brow furrowed in thought.

“Chicken can’ be a priest,” he finally declared. “Can’ say prayers, see? No lips.”

“Zirpale.” Crowley frowned, scraped his tongue across his teeth and tried again. “Aziraphale. There’s a horse. In the Senate. I have no idea waz going on in this empire anymore.”

“Oh, I had dinner with Senator Incitatus,” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Lovely home, lots of marble. Didn’t much care for the oats.” He leaned forward, whispering a choice bit of gossip. “His wife Penelope was very rude, you know.”[2]

“Right.” Crowley handed Aziraphale the cup of wine, trying to process this information. “Where was I?’

“Chicken?”

“Yes. Wouldn’t eat. We waited all day and she jus’…jus’ sat there. And the other boats were –” he waved an arm towards the pool. “Thereish.”

“Maybe it was seasick.” Aziraphale took a drink of wine, then looked up, smiling brightly. “Should have used a duck! Ducks like water.”

“Eh. Mh. Fair point. No’ my idea, makin’ the chicken a priest.” He shrugged widely. “Anyway. By the time the chicken ate, winds’d changed, an’ our ships wouldn’ move. Other ones just – whoop – right up and set them all on fire.”[3]

“So you lost.”

“Yeah. But. Not how I was _s’posed_ to lose.” He settled down, next to Aziraphale but carefully avoided the water. Angel might bless it by accident. Or on purpose. “They tell us…they say…erry choice, there’s a righ’ way an’ a wrong way, yeah? But ‘s’not true. There’s a thousan’ ways. Some right, some wrong, some jus’ dumb.”

“Chicken onna boat.”

“Tha’s m’point.” He leaned forward eagerly. “So if the humans do the wrong thing, it’s still wrong, even if it’s not what Hell wants, right? What matters is it’s wrong, even if it’s the wrong wrong, right?”

Aziraphale blinked. “What?”

“Does that answer your question?”

For another moment, Aziraphale stared at the black lenses Crowley wore, then let his eyes drift across the atrium. “My dear fellow, I’ve quite forgotten what I asked!”

“HA! Means I win.” Crowley drained his cup.

But the angel was frowning over something. “You said Hell…punishes you…if you don’ get enough souls.”

Crowley shrugged. “’S’Hell.” He traced a finger across the tiles of the floor mosaic, studying the colored stones.

“Are they…do they get angry? When y’do th’…the…the wrong-wrong-thing? Or tempt humans the wrong way?”

“Does it matter?” He didn’t want to think about that.

Aziraphale’s hand landed on the back of his, a gentle bit of pressure. “My side is – is _very_ angry at you. All the time. Because you tempt th’humans to do all sortsof things. No one knows wha’ to expect. Drives Gabriel mad, you know.”

Crowley felt a smile coming across his face, like nothing he’d felt in a long time. His face grew hot, and he tugged his hand away.

“How about you,” Crowley said quickly. “You ever do a wrong right thing? Somethin’ that was right, but Heaven didn’t like it?”

“No!” Aziraphale sat up very straight, eyes wide. “M’n’angel. I only do right-right.”

“Aagh.” Crowley threw back his head. “C’mon. In four thousand years, there’s gotta be something you did. I did plenny Hell didn’ like.”

“No – no – no –” there was panic in his eyes now. “Crowley. If I diza – disoj – if I didn’ do what they said… I don’t know! I can’t!”

“Annnnngeeeeelllll,” Crowley drew out the word. “Not one li’l miracle on the side? No good deeds? You can tell me. Who’s gonna know?” He leaned closer, recklessly. “I’ll start. One time. In the north. This chieftain’s son was s’posed to kill this other chieftian’s son. Start a whole war. So I…” Crowley grinned. “Convenced ‘em to run off an’ get married. Their dads still got mad, war happened, bu’ they both lived off in th’ mountains.”

“Oh, Crowley. That’s sweet.”

“No’s’not. ‘S’horrible. There was so much fightin. _So much._ Your turn.”

“Well…one time…” His fingers tapped on the side of a cup. “One scribe was supposed to copy a poem about the king, but I didn’ like it, so I had him copy a different poem instead.”

Crowley blew a raspberry. “Weak! I was s’posed to help Hannibal fight Rome, but I wanted a nap, so I just told him,” he waved his hands, “elephants!”

“I may have accidentally invented the fruit cake?”

“No one likes fruit cake,” Crowley insisted, flapping a hand. “Don’t count. Ummmmm – Oh! I went for a swim ‘round the sea once, and now…’M a sea monster in six different miffs. I eat a princess in one!”

“Did you really?”

“Naaaah, just hissssed at her a little.”

“Oooh!” Aziraphale clapped his hands, smiling. “Stories! In Athens, I had a lovely talk with Aristo – Aristophan – with a play writer. And He wrote a charming story called _The Clouds.”_

“Didn’ that play get a man killed?”[4] Azirpahale’s face fell, but Crowley waved it off. “Aaaaah, these are nothin’. What’ve you done that y’r bosses would be _mad_ about? Proper mad?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and shook his head.

“S’gotta be something, Angel.”

“Well. P’haps.”

“A-ha!”

His fingers tightened around the cup, until cracks began to form. “I. At the Ark. I saved some of the humans who were s’posed to die.”

“How?” Crowley slid closer along the tiled floor.

“I – I – I took a family wi’ children. Moved them to th’other side of the world. Told them – told them they’d been spared, if the spread the story. Then…I did it again an’ again an’ again.” He looked up, eyes filled with tears. “That was _good,_ right? The – the point wasn’t to punish, it was to send a message. Well, I helped spread the message. That’s _good.”_

“Ziraphale…” Crowley mumbled. He glanced at the pool, unable to meet those eyes. The water around the angel’s feet was wine-red, miracling out of his body as he spoke. “Why – why are you…”

“If I’m going to Fall, I want to do it sober.”

“No ya don’t.” If drinking had been an option during the War, Crowley certainly would have. “Why would you –”

“Not just the Ark,” Aziraphale rushed on. “I did the same at Sodom and Gomorrah. I stayed at Babel for months teaching the humans to speak each other’s languages again. In Egypt, the last plague, I – I – I took hundreds of firstborn sons and I – I hid them in safe places. It took weeks before anyone realized what had happened, we’d already left by then, so the point had been made, hadn’t it?”

Crowley pulled off his glasses, still staring at the angel’s panicked face.

“Don’t you understand?” Aziraphale dropped his cup, letting it shatter on the tile. _“I’m_ the reason we can’t control the humans, I’m too soft with them, I don’t have the – the fortitude for this job. I undermine everything Heaven does, always have, and I hoped if I could find another way to control them…but it doesn’t exist, and they’ll find out, and I’ll Fall—”

“When you say…always have…”

“Eden.” Aziraphale pulled his feet out of the pool, turning to face Crowley entirely. “After you left. The lion attacked the humans. So. So I flew down. And I gave them my sword.”

“You what?” Crowley blinked.

“I’d been told to make sure they never returned, and I thought, well, if they’re able to feed themselves and stay warm and fight off the animals, they’ll have no need to come back, will they? I chased off the lion and I said _here you are, flaming sword, everything you need in one. Take this, keep walking, never come back and…and take care of each other.”_ His hands came up, waving vaguely. “Was that the wrong right thing? Or just a wrong thing? I’ve wondered –”

Crowley was never sure why he did it.

The alcohol left his body, flowing into the pool to join Azirpahale’s. He grabbed the angel’s toga and pulled him close until their lips slammed together.

He waited for the smiting, for daring to defile a holy being, even if in an awkward, inexperienced way.

Instead, Aziraphale’s hand slid around his waist, the other cradled the back of his head, and warm lips parted below his and oh.

This was what the poets talked about.

\--

_Wessex – AD 538_

The trumpets blared, the gates ground open, and the knights of King Arthur rode into Camelot, a clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Even had Crowley not been looking out the window, the cheers would have alerted her – it seemed every peasant and craftsman was out in the street, celebrating the return of their lords.

Her eyes searched for one in particular, the one she’d heard rumors of, but it was hard to distinguish one knight among all the shining plate and colorful banners. No, there. The one in a white fur cape, with a white horse. The one who carried no weapon. The smile spread across her face faster than she could bite it back.

“Come, ladies,” the queen said, rising from her throne. Her deep green dress was covered in lace and pearls, highlighting a flawless figure. Most humans didn’t see past that, to the sharp intelligence in her eyes. “The quest may be over, but our work has just begun. Keep the conversation at dinner light, no politics until at least the third course and if the Elaines would kindly spare us from their drama for a single evening…?” She raised an eyebrow at a knot of ladies, all different ages and appearances, who giggled behind their hands.

“My queen,” Crowley said, curtseying politely. “If I may be so bold as to ask for an introduction?”

“Of course!” Guinevere smiled, taking Crowley’s arm in hers. “You’ve hardly had a chance to meet any knights at all since your arrival. At least the questing season is almost over.” She lowered her voice as they walked. “The winters in Camelot may be cold and drafty, but at least we can convince the men to sit down and attend the duties of government. When there aren’t other distractions.” She eyed the Elaines again. “Your full introduction will wait until tomorrow, of course, when the king is ready to receive you. But I think we can at least find you a partner for dinner conversation.”

“I would be most grateful,” Crowley said demurely. “But is there any knight to be found who is as good a match for me as your own king is for you?”

The queen pressed her lips together, then smiled again. “Will you pretend you haven’t learned every bit of gossip about the men? Come. Tell me who you have your eye on, as if I couldn’t guess already.”

There was no mistaking the angel. Out of his armor, he worse a simple tunic of pale blue and white with silver embroidery that contrasted the bright, showy colors of the rest. He stood a little taller than most of the other knights, and she could see how his face beamed, radiant, as if he had stolen the stars and hidden them in his eyes.

Crowley berated herself for such foolish thoughts. It came from spending all her time surrounded by the ladies-in-waiting, but oh, it had been too long.

“…and though we found no sign of the Grail, your highness, I still feel the quest was a great success,” he was saying to some well-dressed human that was probably the king. “The people of Elmet were much heartened by your words and the relief you brought them after the famine.”

“Sir Aziraphale,” the queen chided. “That sounds an awful lot like politics, and you know my rules. The king needs time to recover from his journey.”

Crowley may have noticed Arthur reaching for his wife’s hand, but what expression either wore – or what looks Guinevere gave to the other knights – she missed entirely, because now Aziraphale smiled at her.

“It would appear you’ve gained another lady-in-waiting in my absence,” Aziraphale said, taking Crowley’s hand and bowing over it.

“Yes. Allow me to introduce the Lady Antonia of Crowley.”

“Sir Aziraphale,” Crowley curtseyed deeply. “I have heard much of your deeds.”

“And I believe I know of your family.”

“If it will not distract you from your duties,” she said, with a coquettish glance, “perhaps we can discuss old ties after dinner?”

“I look forward to the conversation.”

It wasn’t much of a conversation, though mouths were heavily involved.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Aziraphale managed, pulling his lips away long enough for a few words. “We agreed it’s too dangerous.”

“Maybe I wanted some danger.” Crowley shoved him against the wall of the castle, just out of sight of the hall where the Knights of Camelot feasted, and pulled kiss after kiss from her angel’s lips while his hands slid around her waist, pulling her closer. “Besides. I’m here on orders. My side thinks the island is getting too peaceful.”

“Too peaceful?” Aziraphale spun her away from the wall, backing her into the cushioned seat of a window. She fell onto the red fabric, and he bent over her, pressing kisses on her face as if to memorize the shape of her nose, her brow, her cheeks. “The kings of this island do nothing but fight!” He managed in between kisses, as Crowley twisted her head, trying to catch his mouth. “It’s all the queen can do to keep them from declaring war on each other every time they sit down to dinner.”

“Mmh.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale into her lap, kissing her way down his jaw and neck, as far as the lacing on the tunic would allow. “Probably why I was sent to ruin their marriage.”

“I don’t want to tell you how to do your job,” Aziraphale began, then paused to do something to Crowley’s neck that left her positively gasping. “But if you’re supposed to be seducing the king, you’re going about it all wrong.”

“Perhaps I need more practice.” She pressed her forehead to Aziraphale’s lightly rubbing their noses together. “I’m certain one of the chambers on this hall has a bed.”

“Nh,” Aziraphale groaned with a smile. “They’re going to expect me back soon. I really did just mean to find out why you’re here.”

Crowley let him stand, and he pulled her to her feet. They stood in the hall, arms wrapped around each other, her chin resting on his head. “I’m supposed to make Guinevere fall for one of the knights. We’re fairly certain without her there to balance the king, Camelot will fall apart in a matter of weeks.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Well. The lust department had several suggestions. But naturally I arrive and she’s already in love with Lancelot.”

“Can’t blame her. Everyone’s in love with Lancelot.”

“Does that include you?”

“Don’t be jealous.” He brushed her lips lightly, and Crowley pulled him closer, into something much deeper and rougher. When they finally parted, breathless, they settled onto the window seat, side-by-side.

“Listen, you need to let me have this one,” Aziraphale said, twining their fingers together. “Not just because I was here first – though I was – but I really do think this is important. The island becomes more unified every year. People are _happy_ under Arthur. And I think I’ve found the secret to the humans.”

“Not this again…” Crowley objected.

But he lifted her hand, brushing a kiss on every finger, every knuckle. “They don’t listen to us because we’re outsiders. We agree on this yes? But they trust a _human_ leader, a charismatic one. We just find the right leader – like Arthur – and guide _him_ on the right path, and he will ensure the rest follow.” His free hand slid up to cup Crowley’s face. “I have a whole report for Head Office almost complete. I’m certain it will go over well. I just need a few more months.”

“Oh, Angel.” She turned her head, kissing his palm. “I told you before. Nothing we do here matters. They’re already in love, she’s already tempted, and every day Arthur spends building his kingdom drives them further apart. It’s only a matter of time.” She leaned against his hand, searching his earnest eyes. “Let’s just enjoy this one. You and me, together, like…like humans…” It was strangely difficult to say.

“We can,” he said, hardly seeming to notice the pain she was in. “Once my report is ready, we can do – whatever game you like.” He pressed a kiss to the sigil on the side of her face. “There’s a lovely glade in the woods…I’d like to take you there next summer.”

Summer was far away. Already the queen received letters from her husband’s best knight, and the messengers carried notes back. But Guinevere knew what was at stake. “I think I can buy you a little time,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale smiled so brilliantly, her heart almost stopped beating. After nearly five thousand years, he still had hope, still believed he could make a difference. Sometimes, he even had Crowley believing again, thinking she belonged, a part of the world, someone who moved through it, helped to shape it, not just an outsider hammering around the edges, trying to make any impression.

It would hurt, later, when Aziraphale was proven wrong yet again. It would hurt them both. But now, in this moment, they had hope. And she loved him for it.

Crowley stood with a gasp.

“Crowley? My dear, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I – nothing.” She stepped away, finding another window to gaze out across the rolling fields of Camelot.

Aziraphale stepped up behind her, wrapping his hands around her waist, pulling her back into the curve of his stomach, enveloping her in his warmth. She tried not to let him see her expression.

She loved Aziraphale.

That was wrong. That wasn’t the Arrangement they had.

They coordinated jobs to avoid pointless conflict. They came up with clever lies for Head Office when half their assignments inevitably failed. They alerted each other to deeds the other could take credit for.

And, when they could, they distracted each other in the most pleasant ways possible.

They were not supposed to be in love.

\--

_London – 1601_

“To be or not to be, that is the question…”

“Literature!” Aziraphale hissed happily, clutching at Crowley’s arm. He had that smile again, the one that always said he’d figured it out “Why didn’t I think of it before? It’s so obvious!”

Crowley looked fixedly at the stage, where the actor struggled to deliver his lines to an empty theater. Burbage was good, Shakespeare’s lines were clever (not that Crowley would admit either out loud), but still no one came to see the play.

“Pretty sure you’ve tried doing plays before. Remember what happened to Socrates?”

“It’s not the same!” He smiled at the stage, eating another grape. Crowley watched that smile through dark glasses, already bracing himself for what would come later. “For one thing, that was a complete accident. I had no idea comedy could be so cruel. For another, I wasn’t trying to manipulate anything, it just happened. But it worked!”

“Worked? It got a man executed!” Crowley circled behind Aziraphale, leaning close to whisper. “Besides, your side has had a stranglehold on literature for centuries. What gets copied, what doesn’t, thousands of sermons and treatises and bad poems.” He clenched his fist. “They’re just – so – boring!”

Up on stage, Burbage hesitated, shooting a glare towards Shakespeare that clearly said _I told you so._

“Not you!” Aziraphale waved to the stage. “We were talking about a different play! This one is very not-boring!”

“It’s a little boring,” Crowley started, but Aziraphale scowled at him. “Fine. Yes. You’re very clever. Slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Good rhythm. Bravo.”

Shakespeare waved to his actor, and Burbage stepped to the center of the stage again. “To be, or not to be…”

“Oh, now he’s starting over,” Crowley groaned.

“Look, I have a plan,” Aziraphale tried again. _“Popular_ literature. Comedies, love poems, things people _enjoy_ hearing. We find the writers who are already very good, then just encourage a few new ideas into their stories. Use them as examples. Get people really talking about philosophy and morality.”

Already Crowley was shaking his head. “No, Angel. Besides, what’s so bloody good about this play? He just stands around talking about doing things, and never _does_ anything!”

“Proof of concept. Besides, I happen to like it. Look, I’ll do some of the funny ones you like, too. All I do is get him to slip in a few particularly memorable lines, ensure the play’s success, and once all of London is talking about it, I can bring it to Gabriel and – and –”

“And what? Really?” Crowley circled again, to stand in front of Aziraphale, blocking the stage entirely. “You think humans don’t know how morality is supposed to work? Your lot have been feeding them rules for millennia. Nothing you can tell them now is new. It won’t change anything. Look.” He took Aziraphale’s hand in both of his, running his thumbs across the soft knuckles, feeling the way the angel’s fingers curled with a protectiveness Crowley didn’t deserve. Even after sixteen centuries, it could still make him shiver. “We’ve both got jobs in Edinburgh coming up. Forget all this. Let’s go north together, make a holiday of it. The giant monster can make an appearance at that lake you like, and then we’ll have it all to ourselves for a few days…”

Aziraphale’s eyes half-closed, and for a second, he leaned towards Crowley. Then he stepped away, quickly eating another grape. “Not where people can see us. We need to be more careful.”

“No one cares.” Crowley circled behind him, resting a hand on his lower back, feeling Aziraphale’s own shivers. “What do you say? You, me, a little journey north?”

“Crowley…I really think I have something here.” The demon groaned and stepped away, knowing what was about to come. “Look, if you could just – just cover my blessings for me while I get everything sorted out, I’m sure I can have a report ready in no time.”

“Angel, not again.”

But Aziraphale was looking at him with that mix of hope and pleading in his eyes, and it made Crowley’s heart melt all over again. He couldn’t say no. He could never, ever say no.

“Fine. Just promise me, when it all falls apart, this time you’ll do something for yourself. Take a rest. Enjoy life.”

“If you like, but it doesn’t matter.” Aziraphale smiled, like the sun emerging at the end of a storm. “This time it will work. You’ll see.”

\--

_Paris – 1793_

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, Angel. Only humans do that.”

“Crowley!” The angel leapt to his feet, turning with a smile that made Crowley nearly discorporate. Then he frowned. “Good lord. Is _that_ what you wear to rescue me?”

“Sorry, left all my dashing hero outfits back in London.” He lurched upright and made to leave. “Maybe I should go get one. You mind waiting here a couple of days?”

“Don’t you – Crowley!” He looked back to find Aziraphale sinking back onto his seat. “Oh, you were right. It all fell apart.”

“I know, Angel. I read _Paradise Lost._ Pretty sure that’s not what you had in mind.” He settled onto the bench and took Aziraphale’s manacled hand in his. “What happened? Last time we spoke, you said it was all going well.”

“Well, I lied. It’s been a disaster from beginning to end.” He stared at the dripping walls of his cell. “I don’t understand. Look at – look at the Courtly Love poetry. The tales of chivalry. The same ideals over and over and people love them, follow them, emulate them.”

“Been a lot written about what your side has to say, too.”

“I know. But people don’t – they don’t _love_ it, not the same way.” He lowered his voice. “Did you read those – those Puritanical treatises? It was like being lectured by Gabriel through a book, as unlikely as that sounds. And half the things they talked about are completely irrelevant! The humans always wind up more concerned with their own ideas and forget about the really important things.”

“So, why did you think it would be any different this time?”

“I don’t know! New contexts, new media. People were excited about literature as they hadn’t been for so long. It could be a fresh start for our message. Only when I pitched the idea to Gabriel, all he heard was the word _new_ and next thing I know we’re organizing new translations of the same texts.”

“That explains the King James Bible.” Crowley had taken some joy in convincing Hell that the latest translation counted as a point for their side.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Then I tried suggesting some ideas to writers, personally, in dreams or at bars or all sorts of ways. But they all just took them in the wrong way entirely.”

“That explains _Paradise Lost.”_ He’d enjoyed parts of that one.

“Yes. And I finally succeeded in getting some intellectuals to discuss morality, philosophy, science, all those big questions. And in the end, they pulled all our ideas to pieces and rebuilt them into something entirely different.”

“That explains the Enlightenment.” Crowley couldn’t help smiling at that. He _loved_ when humans questioned things.

“And all that led to this.” Aziraphale waved manacled arms around the filthy cell. “A revolution and a hundred executions a day. All because I just…wanted people to talk about right and wrong.” He sighed. “So yes. You were right. Nothing we do makes any difference.”

_But you tried,_ Crowley wanted to say. _It’s been so long since I could bring myself to try. And you accomplished so much, even if it’s not what you wanted. You were brilliant. I love you._

He didn’t say that, though. There were some things a demon could never say.

But he had other words instead.

“Angel. What did I make you promise, two hundred years ago, when all this started?”

“That I would make _Much Ado_ as popular as _Hamlet._ I really did try –”

“No, not that.” He stood up and pulled on the chain that bound the angel. “You promised if it all fell apart –” he tugged again, and Aziraphale stumbled to his feet – “you’d take a break from all this –” one more pull brought Aziraphale against him – “And do something for yourself.”

“Well. I suppose I did.” A little smile appeared on the angel’s face, as his hands started tugging on Crowley’s lapels.

“And it would be horrible – shameful – an unbelievable scandal if an angel were to go back on his word.” Crowley looped his hands around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling himself into that softness.

“Hmmmm,” Aziraphale rested his cheek against Crowley’s shoulder. “I thought we might get crepes.”

“It’s a start.” Crowley pressed a line of kisses across his jaw and down his neck, stopped too soon by the enormous cravat.

“And…see where the night goes?”

Crowley ran his fingers up Aziraphale’s spine, feeling those shivers once again. “I have some thoughts on that, too,” he promised, purring in his angel’s ear. “But after that?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “More crepes in the morning?”

“If you like,” Crowley laughed, “but not what I had in mind. Come on. You always have so many ideas for Heaven. Big elaborate plans. You must have one for yourself.”

“No I – I – it would be quite impossible.” He pushed away just a little.

“Yeah, probably, but that doesn’t usually stop you.” Crowley cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hands. He wanted to see that glow again, the look of hope. “Whatever it is, I can help.”

“I…there was one idea…I thought I might…open a bookshop.”

It took an effort not to frown at that. “A bookshop?”

“Yes! You know. Big leather-bound ones. Novels. Poetry. Even old journals. I could collect them, and repair them…”

“Sell them to customers?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s face fell a little. “I suppose…in the right circumstances. But I would also know all the latest books, and I could talk about the ideas in them. Maybe even get a cat.” He sighed. “I know it sounds foolish, but…I imagine it, in the heart of London, closing up early to go to the theater, or spend the night in with _my_ collection and a bottle of wine…”

Yes, there it was. That smile. The one that made Crowley fall in love again every time. “And what are you going to call this business venture?”

“A.Z. Fell & Co. Just need to decide what the letters stand for.”

Crowley nodded. “And the Co?”

“Just a formality really.” His manacled hands found Crowley’s lapels again, smoothing them. “Unless, you know, someone was interested in being my partner?”

Crowley’s jaw hung open, trying to find the words, but it was too much. His heart raced until he thought it would burst. “You. You want me…?”

“Well. Gabriel would just make a mess of things.”

“But. Dangerous.”

“We’d have to be careful, but, well, we’re both very clever. Surely we could –”

The rest was cut off by Crowley’s lips, and by the sound of chains tumbling to the floor.

\--

The next morning, Crowley sat on the right side of the bed, watching his angel dream.

He lay back across, to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, then his bare shoulder. A smile grew across the sleeping face. “Cowey?” he mumbled.

“Shhh. Stay here. I’ve got some things to take care of first. I’ll see you in London. In _our_ bookshop.”

Aziraphale waited for over two hundred years.

\--

_August 2008_

The door to Aziraphale’s bookshop burst open with the sort of force usually associated with riots, attempted robberies, and visits from school groups. He turned from the customer he had been slightly-less-than-gently dissuading from purchasing a copy of _Oliver Twist._ It was one of the cheap paperbacks he kept around for persistent customers, but policy is policy.

A quick glance to the door to see who the troublemaker was.

A longer glance to take in the tall, dark being with the long red hair and the black glasses hiding any hint of his expression.

He pulled the book from the customer’s hand. “Everyone, please leave. We are closed.”

“But the sign said—”

“Everyone. Leave. We are closed.”

The three human customers shuffled their way out the door, past the impatient demon. Aziraphale took a deep breath before looking him in the eye – or at least the black lenses. “That includes you,” he said, voice as calm as he could make it.

“I – listen, we need to talk—”

“Oh.” Aziraphale took a step closer, watching the way Crowley twisted and squirmed. His clothing was ridiculous, trousers so tight he could hardly walk. He’d managed to cram a few fingers into the pockets, but they didn’t seem to be deep enough. “Now you want to talk?”

“Yeah, look, I’m sorry, Angel, I really am, but this is –”

“You said you would see me in London.”

“It’s…yeah, we’re in London—”

“Two _hundred_ and fifteen years, Crowley!” Even though they’d been designed to absorb sound, Aziraphale’s shout echoed off the walls of the shop. “I have been waiting to hear from you for _two_ _centuries!”_

“I…I had…”

“Oh, you had _things to take care of?”_ Aziraphale stepped closer, jabbing a finger at him. “You could have contacted me!”

“It wasn’t safe!”

“Wasn’t _safe?_ Since when do you worry about it being safe? You just waltz right in and introduce your newest alias, every time.”

“Angel—”

“Don’t you _Angel_ me!” He shut his eyes and turned away. This isn’t how he’d wanted this to go. _Don’t argue. It isn’t worth arguing. Just say your bit and send him away._ “Crowley. In the last two hundred years, I’ve taken a…a lot of time to think about our…Arrangement. Things had gone rather too far.” He nodded, turning back. “Perhaps this separation was a blessing. In the future we should avoid—”

“Aziraphale, listen to me!” For the first time in so long, he felt those hands on his arms again, clutching him through the fabric. “Never mind any of that, this is important!”

It was an effort to catch his breath. “Let go of me, _now.”_

Crowley stepped back, holding up his hands, but the urgency hadn’t left his voice. “Hell has kickstarted Armageddon. It’s the end of the _world.”_

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. _So it’s true._ Plenty of humans had calculated the final date, and all of them had been wrong. He had hoped that Heaven’s information would also be incorrect. “Gabriel told me as much the other day. I’m meant to find out what I can and report back.” He cleared his throat, looking around at his shop, at his prized first editions, his music collection, the little row of silver snuff boxes by the window.

Six thousand years, and this was all he really had to show for it.

“I don’t suppose you know how long we have left?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“About eleven years. The Antichrist has been delivered. I don’t know who they sent. I don’t exactly have a lot of fans downstairs just now but – but we still have time. We can track him down—”

“And do what? As you’re so fond of reminding me, nothing we do matters. Nothing I try makes any difference.” Aziraphale walked over to the desk where he kept his favorite first editions. Perhaps he could petition to have one or two added to the Library of Heaven, if they met the subject matter approval. _Persuasion,_ at least, had served him well for many years.

“But we have to try.” Crowley danced around the edge of his vision. “You always say that. We _have_ to try.”

“No, we don’t. There’s really no point. We can either try to avoid the inevitable, or we can prepare ourselves for it.” He wandered over to his music collection. Eleven years was probably enough time to learn to like one or two of Elgar’s works. Not enough time for _The Sound of Music._

“Angel, please.” Crowley’s hand found that spot at the small of his back, the one that always made him shiver with delight. Oh, it really had been too long. “Don’t give up. Not yet. I can’t do this alone.”

“Just tell me this.” Aziraphale stared directly ahead, not looking at anything at all. “How long have you been in London? Months? Years? Decades?”

“Angel—”

“I saw the shape of the M25. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize a sigil?”

The hand pulled away, leaving him cold and alone. It was all the answer Aziraphale needed. “You should go now.”

He waited until the door clicked shut before sinking into his chair.

Then he searched his desk for a fresh piece of paper, and began to write his next report for Gabriel.

\--

_July 2019_

Crowley pressed his mobile to his ear, leaning against the side of his Bentley. He heard a ring – another ring – a third –

“I’m sorry to say we are quite definitely closed. My regular hours are suspended, due to—”

“It’s me.”

A pause.

“How did you get this number?”

“What – Aziraphale, it’s the bookshop number. I got it the same way your customers do, unearthing a three-decade-old phone directory.”

“I thought I’d destroyed all those.”

“Will you listen?” Crowley shifted the mobile to his other ear. “I don’t have much time. I know where the Antichrist is. I know a bit more than that, too – what Hell is planning, where it’s all going to happen.”

A heavy sigh over the line. “If you’re going to say _Megiddo,_ I already know that.”

His heart rose. “Aziraphale – you _have_ been doing research! I knew you wouldn’t just give up. Don’t worry, I’ve got more than that – lots more.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I really – _really_ – shouldn’t have this information, alright? But I think I’ve got a plan. I don’t know if it’ll save the world forever, but…it should buy us some time.”

Silence on the line.

“Aziraphale. I’m…I’m sorry. I really am. All I wanted was for you to be safe and…look…I can tell you more when we meet. I promise, I’m going to make it all up to you, in whatever time we have left.” More silence. “Do you need me to say it? It hurts, but I can—”

“No. Don’t.” Another pause, but this time with the sound of rustling paper in the background. “Just…tell me where to meet you. And when. I need at least a day to make preparations.”

Crowley had to put the mobile down and take a few deep breaths, pulling off his glasses to wipe at his eyes. “Right. Yes. Tomorrow is fine.” He turned a map towards him. “I can’t pick you up, not safe, but I can give you directions. Do you have some way of getting out here?”

\--

The next day, Crowley paced beside his Bentley, waiting for the angel to show up. He was late.

Not late, actually. Technically, he still had several minutes to go. Aziraphale usually preferred to be early, but there could be many reasons he wasn’t able to find the spot. The plan was to meet here and travel the rest of the way together. He’d fill Aziraphale in on the details as they drove.

He thought he’d been clever, choosing the meeting spot, but the only identifying feature on this side road was a tree in the middle of a field. It was entirely possible the angel was ten miles away, waiting next to a completely different tree in an unrelated field and –

With an almost-unheard change of air pressure, Aziraphale was standing to his left.

“Angel,” he breathed out in relief. “You shouldn’t have done that. Anyone could have sensed your arrival. I’ve made a lot of demons very angry.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, not quite meeting his eyes. That was fine. They would have time. The important thing was, Aziraphale had come. They were together again.

“Get in the car. It’s about ten minutes from here. I’ll tell you everything.”

“Yes. You really should tell us everything, as soon as possible.”

Another change in air pressure.

And Crowley turned to find Gabriel, Michael, Sandalphon and a dozen other angels standing behind him.

“Well done, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, with a smile that made Crowley’s skin crawl. “Get the chains on him, I want to start interrogation as soon as possible.”

He spun back to Aziraphale, who held a golden chain in his hand. “You – Aziraphale, no.” Those hands reached for him, and Crowley stumbled back, barely able to stand, barely able to breathe around the awful, broken feeling in his gut. “You lied to me!”

“No, I didn’t – you just assumed – Crowley, please. This is for the best.”

“No!” In a flash of light, he was a serpent again, as big as he could manifest, slashing venom-filled fangs at the angels. It wouldn’t destroy them but it would burn, and he could probably get two before they took him down. He struck towards Gabriel, lashed his tail around towards Michael and her troops, and twisted away to the field, hoping for more room to maneuver.

He never made it that far.

Aziraphale leapt onto his back, pinning his face against the ground, as he twisted furiously, trying to escape. The metal chain slipped around his neck like a noose, pulled tight –

And suddenly, Crowley was human-shaped again, lying in the street, with Aziraphale sitting on his back, knees pinning his shoulders, hand pressing his face down into the pavement.

“Angel – please – don’t do this. Don’t do this.”

“Hush, dear. Don’t struggle. This is for the best. It’s for the best.”

[1] Popina – a bar in ancient Rome, usually serving the lower classes, with reputations for being rough

[2] Incitatus – Emperor Caligula’s prize racehorse, which he allegedly made a Senator, and attempted to appoint Consul. His ornate marble stable probably was real; his wife, the mare Penelope, is from Robert Graves’ _I, Claudius_

[3] This is not an actual battle, but combines details from the Battle of Drepana (249 BC, when Publius Claudius Pulcher threw the sacred chickens in the sea for refusing to eat) and the Battle of Actium (31 BC, when Marc Antony held his position while the winds shifted, until it was quite impossible to slip by Octavian’s forces). Romans were very fond of various forms of fortune telling; one tradition was that if the sacred chickens ate a certain way before battle, it was a good omen, but if they refused to eat, it was ill.

[4] Aristophanes’ _The Clouds_ – a comedy about philosophy, ideas, religion and education. One character is a parody of Socrates, and allegedly the play was used as evidence in his trial that he “corrupted the youth,” leading to his execution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> This was...as I said, quite difficult to write. As of posting time, I have also written the scenes that delve into Aziraphale's motivation in the final scene. It is coming, but editing has been a little slow just due to how HEAVY these sections are.
> 
> Please comment below to berate me.
> 
> (Next chapter will return to our Aziraphale and Crowley)


	16. Far Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after arriving in the new world, Aziraphale tries to protect his charges...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our Aziraphale continues to go by "Kasbeel" for the next few chapters. After a bit of playing around, it was the simplest option.
> 
> The Crowleys are a bit more difficult to differentiate, as each refers to himself as "Crowley." When ours is POV, he refers to the other as "mirror image." The AU Crowley refers to ours as "newcomer."

Kasbeel hovered in the air, giving his report.

“The demonic army attempted to strike from the Scottish Highlands, reinforced by several thousand of the Marked soldiers. They were driven off by Matafiel’s troops. We believe there may be some still hidden far to the north, on the Outer Hebrides.”

“These names mean nothing to us,” said Tufriel, rolling his eyes towards his partner. “Some of these scouts are starting to go native.”

“Won’t be a problem much longer,” Bezaliel replied. “Never mind the demons, we’ll get an update further north. Is this land still free from the blight?”

“Yes, Dominion,” Kasbeel bobbed his head with the correct amount of deference. “The whole of the Peak District is believed to be the last area free of Abaddon’s curse anywhere on this island, though rumors persist of some clear ground in Ireland.”

“Are there any humans left on the islands?” Bezaliel asked.

“The Retrieval squads took ours and we cleared out the rest last month.” Tufriel crossed his arms. “If only _this_ island were so easy to deal with. Still, if this is the only unblemished land, it’s probably where the humans will gather. Once they realize they can’t get in the city. We’ll keep watching it. Good work.”

“Thank you.” He held up his messenger tube, sealed and directed to Michael’s base camp in Cornwall. “I will need to continue south with this. Do you have any details to add?”

“Only that I thought we’d be finished by now. Seven damn years of this. How much longer is it supposed to go on, anyway?”

Bezaliel grinned hungrily. “Not much more. Our offensive should begin in a little less than a month.” A wink towards the dutiful scout. “Keep an eye on the sky, tonight or tomorrow. Things are starting to happen.”

Kasbeel saluted, and the other two returned to their patrol. When they were well out of sight, he landed on a bare rock outcrop and hummed. Not with his lips; his wings vibrated, creating a single, perfect tone, echoing off the stones of the Peaks.

The humans began emerging from their hiding spots almost immediately, secreted behind stones or in deceptive hollows. Mostly teenagers, a few older, many younger, about half with a Mark upon their faces. They gathered around the angel, moving silently on the grass and moss.

It took nearly an hour for all to arrive. Kasbeel’s group of wanderers now numbered in the hundreds.

“Doesn’t sound like we’re going to be safe up here much longer,” Lyla said, without preamble. “Probably should have left last week, like I said.”

“Perhaps,” Kasbeel conceded, waving his arm to miracle up some food. It wasn’t much. Loaves of bread, potatoes, carrots. A little bit of meat, but he couldn’t produce anywhere near enough for a group this large. “But if we’d left then, Jennifer, Mickey and Ollie wouldn’t have found us.” At only five years old, Ollie was the youngest they’d taken in.

“Fine.” Lyla counted out the servings of meat and checked her list. “Group six gets the meat tonight. _Only_ group six, Alex, I know that doesn’t include you.” She turned back to the angel who led them. “But we leave tonight.”

“Agreed.” He sighed, looking around the tumbling rocks one more time. “We’ll have to move quickly. This was a good hiding place. We won’t find another place this convenient, or this safe.”

“Where to, then?” Lyla grabbed Alex’s wrist, sending the thirteen-year-old over to the bread line. “Ireland? I don’t know how we’ll cross the sea, but it sounds like they’ve stopped looking there.”

Kasbeel pursed his lips. “Have you given up on finding New Eden, then?”

She spun towards him, fury in her eyes. “You know I haven’t. But it could be anywhere in the world! How the hell are we ever going to find it? We’ve barely searched half of England in over three years.”

He winced. “Three years, four months, six days,” he muttered. It was a very, very long time to go without hearing from Crowley. He’d tried contacting the demon in his dreams, over and over. He was _here._ He could sense that. But nothing else. “It’s in England. It must be. One of the patrols told me…Aziraphale,” he hesitated over the name, as always, “chose the location himself. He wouldn’t pick anywhere other than England.”

“Your double.” Lyla sat down next to him. She had grown, in the last three years, her hair getting long, her clothing replaced by whatever they could loot in half-abandoned cities, as was the case for all Kasbeel’s wards. Even her newest shirt was threadbare, the colors faded, as if the inanimate objects of the world had ceased to care. “You never told me what the deal was with you two.”

“No. I think it would be rather too much for you to understand.”

“Kasbeel, the world is ending. The ground is cursed. And I spend half my time talking to a rogue angel. What could possibly be weird at this point?”

He smiled. “My child, you haven’t the first idea.” He smoothed his hands down his jacket, then realized he was still in his scout uniform. A wave of his fingers turned it back to the familiar suit, bowtie and all. “Still, if you like, I can bring you all to Ireland before I continue my search. It should only take a few days to reach the coast, even with the young ones. After that…” he hesitated. Miracle up a giant ship? And how to make sure it landed somewhere unblighted?

“You know we won’t last a day without you,” Lyla sighed. “Wherever you’re going, you’re stuck with us.”

He turned back to the crowd that he had slowly gathered across the years. Orphans. Renegades. Many of them troublemakers who had been thrown out of the gangs they thought would protect them, others the only survivors by angelic or demonic attack. Exhausted, half-malnourished, so worn and dirty as to almost blend in with the rocks around them.

But not afraid. Of all the people left in the world, and Kasbeel feared there were not many, these few hundred slept safely at night, under the watch of an angel.

His godchildren.

“My dear Lyla, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He settled down on a rock that conveniently grew to about the size of an armchair, with a thick cushion of moss.

She rolled her eyes at him. “How is it even out here, you manage to pamper yourself?”

“Millennia of practice. Now, what do you say we try for London again? It’s a risk, with all the patrols, but it may be the only place large enough to hide this many.”

“Assuming we can get in.”

“Assuming so, yes,” he said, gazing across the crowd. “And it sounds like there are many angels gathered in the south. But If I’m right about the wall of energy surrounding the city, I may know how to cross it.”

“And you still think your friend might be there.”

Kasbeel nodded. “I can’t imagine where else he might be. He should have contacted me by now, but they say no messages can get out of London. But, still, I would think–”

A cry went up from the gathered crowd, a scream of fear, echoed by person after person. “The sky!” Someone shouted, pointing. “The clouds are parting!”

In an instant, Kasbeel was on his feet, wings spread. He should have heard the trumpets, sensed the angels long before they parted the clouds – he had spent months honing his senses, in order to protect his charges. He braced himself for the orders that would arrive in his mind; if the Guardian of Humanity were among them, it would be difficult to resist…

Nothing came.

Instead, the clouds simply drifted apart, faster and faster, not a small parting but the whole sky, revealing the fading blue of twilight, deepening to black. Stars pierced the sky, just a few at first, but each bright as a jewel, clearer than he could ever remember them being, even in Heaven.

“Oh my God…” Lyla whispered, stepping next to him. “It’s clear. It hasn’t been clear since…since the war…I was a kid…”

Another star seemed to burst into view, white and shining, and Kasbeel fell to his knees, remembering…remembering a cottage in the South Downs, a blanket in the back garden, laying on his back and watching them arrive, while next to him…next to him…

_That one’s Regulus._ Not _one of mine, Angel, that was some snooty wanker who thought he was so clever just because he could get four stars to orbit each other. And over there is Arcturus. Also_ technically _not mine, but I had this really great idea and I needed a red giant to test it out on. It worked, by the way, so keep an eye out for a helium flash in the next thousand years or so…_

It hurt, like being pierced by a spear, like being torn apart. He reached out a hand, grasping, wishing to feel Crowley, lying at his left side, as he always was, his protector, his partner, his friend…

A small hand caught his, wrapping around his fingers. He turned, blinking tears from his eyes, to see Lyla, kneeling beside him. A moment later the others started gathering around. Mickey, Rahima, Alex, Lochlan, Mariah, Amiyah, Dominic, Ollie, and so many more.

“Look,” Kasbeel said, pointing at the sky. “That star there. That’s Regulus. And over there…that one is named Arcturus…”

\--

Far away, in a cell that seemed to exist in its own bubble far from anything else, Crowley snapped awake, emerging from a dream that was slightly less painful than reality.

Something had changed.

He could feel it, deep inside. Something that had been missing, suddenly returned.

“It’s the stars,” said his mirror image, across the cell. Shoftiel had left them both in their human bodies this time. The manacles that held their wrists – Crowley’s left, his mirror image’s right – were too short to lay down comfortably, so they both sprawled against their walls.

They didn’t talk much. The secrets they held were the only things keeping them alive. So they simply existed, here, together, witnessing each other’s pain and humiliation, waiting for their own turns. It bonded them in ways conversation never could.

“The sky is clear again,” the mirror image continued, looking up at the ceiling, lost to the dark above. “I wish I could see it.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, allowing himself to remember a night on a blanket in a garden, just for a moment. “Me, too.”

“Not long now,” the mirror image said. “Seven years. That’s all it ever was.” His eyes met Crowley’s, and they were full of fear. They couldn’t hide their emotions without the glasses, and that was one thing they were never allowed. “If the stars are back, time’s nearly up.”

“So they’ve…learned everything?” It wasn’t something they asked each other. But if it was the end, Crowley wanted to know.

“Just one secret left.” The mirror image rolled his head, with a broken version of Crowley’s smile. “How to get into London.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Yes, I always planned for this three-year time skip.
> 
> I'm going to attempt to post as many chapters as I can tonight, so short notes. Please let me know in a comment if you need anything clarified, and I'll add a note afterwards!


	17. Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale begins his journey south, while stories circulate of the strange angel...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small CW for some briefly described but very bad injuries, as well as more abandoned landscape

“Tell me about the angel.”

Crowley’s mirror image slumped against the wall, looking blankly at the space between them.

It was the only thing he ever asked. He never spoke of his own Aziraphale.

At first, Crowley had thought it was a trick. He’d kept his responses vague, evasive. _What do you want me to say? Smug bastard with white wings._ The mirror image had simply nodded.

Over time, Crowley started telling stories from their past, short ones, ones he thought over carefully, to ensure they wouldn’t reveal too much.

_He likes oysters, way too much. Just. Salty, briny disgusting oysters, and he’ll eat a dozen of them in one sitting. Slurps them, too._

_He can’t stand Charles Dickens. No idea why. Might just be that his customers are always asking for him, but I think they met once._

_He’s been trying to learn to pull a coin from someone’s ear for over a century. Still drops the damn thing half the time. Isn’t it only supposed to take ten thousand hours to learn a skill? He’s coming up on a hundred thousand hours I think, and he still can’t get the fingers right._

And then, somewhere along the way, he stopped even guarding himself that much.

“He helps people,” Crowley said, turning his leg, which was still stiff and sore from the last torture session. The floor around him was black with demonic blood. “Even…when it’s really not worth it, even when there’s something way more important going on. One time, we were at this little restaurant in Italy. I turn my back for a minute, and there he goes, off washing dishes. He _hates_ doing that sort of stuff, you know, always leaves them in the sink until I take care of it. But the girl in the back had been sick, and he sent her home and took over the job himself. Didn’t even use miracles, by the way, and couldn’t figure out how the machine worked, so he did it all by hand.”

“What…” the mirror image asked. “What was the more important thing?”

“Oh, uh, I’d been planning to ask him something. Not important what. We picked up the conversation later, but, um, he really ruined my first attempt.”

\--

A hundred and forty miles to London.

Alone, Kasbeel could fly the distance in just under five hours. He would be exhausted, but he’d had a lot of practice the last few years.

He was not alone.

A Roman legion could walk twenty miles a day, setting up camp every night and breaking it in the morning. They could have made it in a week. Harold Godwinson had crossed from Yorkshire to Sussex in a little more than that.

But Kasbeel wasn’t leading an army.

He was leading nearly three hundred tired, hungry humans, most of them young, through enemy territory. Where they could be spotted at any moment and taken from him.

He took a deep breath, and walked through the crowd.

“Patrick, how’s the leg? Healing well? Ollie, make sure you hold onto Jennifer’s hand. Mrs. Sherwood, that’s not too many children? Please let Mrs. Kumar know if you need help. Amiyah, why don’t you move up to the front where we can see you? Alex, please, stay with your group, I don’t want to ask you again.” He greeted as many as he could, clasping shoulders, grasping hands.

When he reached the front, Lyla was waiting. She’d arranged her hair to hide the Mark on her cheekbone, as many did if they could. He bit his tongue and didn’t say anything. It was her choice.

“Are we ready to go?” she asked, tilting her head towards the highway, cutting south towards London.

“I believe so.” He glanced at the sky, black, filled with stars once more. It was comforting, and frightening. What else would change? “Let’s get as far as we can before sunrise.”

\--

Ishliah had never seen the world before the apocalypse. Just barracks and training until the day the war started, then fighting, and fighting and fighting.

What spread before her now was almost incomprehensible. Little short plants growing everywhere from the ground, a vibrant, impossible green. And the taller ones – the _trees_ – reaching almost to the top of the wall, branches spreading thick with fruit. Little animals sat in the branches, singing, not as varied or interesting as the singing of angels, but music nonetheless.

All that, and the sky above, brilliant blue again – it was almost enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Ishliah of the Seventh Battalion. Welcome to New Eden.”

She turned, and her heart stopped in her chest. That face – she knew him, would never forget it, though now he was in uniform, flaming sword in hand. But the pale curls – the round face – the blue-grey eyes…

“You…” she managed, weakly.

“That would be the confirmation I need.” He stepped closer, still smiling. “I am Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Earth and Guardian of Humanity. I believe you met someone claiming to be me, three years ago, according to your report.”

“That…it really was…you?” Her hands began to tremble, and she wondered if this was what fear felt like. She never felt it on the battlefield, but this was much, much worse.

Ishliah had lied in that report.

“No, it was not.” He patted her on the shoulder. “And I don’t believe many others understand what you truly witnessed. I don’t fully understand it myself, but I mean to. Now. You said this angel…” a screen appeared in his hand and he scrolled down, lips pursed as he read. “Here it is. He took you into a hidden room and tortured you for information? Is this true?”

“Yes?” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes. There was a great deal of pain and…he asked me questions…”

Something caught her eye down in the garden. A group of humans, being led to a smaller walled area not far away. The human in the lead was shouting, and they all seemed to be bound together on some sort of chain.

“Even here we have our troublemakers,” Aziraphale said, with something like regret. “Sometimes the children don’t grow obediently as we’d hoped, and sometimes the Retrieval teams make mistakes when identifying the Elect. Not often, but we have been very busy lately.” He nodded towards the smaller walled section. “The holding pen is their last chance. Gabriel will arrive in a week to deliver the final Judgement on them.”

“And…if they’re found wanting…?”

“They’re cast out, of course. Far from here. The Eastern Gate, you understand, is purely ceremonial.” He gestured to the outer wall beside them.

Ishliah glanced down to see, not quite directly below them, a single stone missing from the completely smooth face of the wall. It hardly looked large enough for even a young human to slip through. She checked the inside curve of the wall. No breaks there – the missing stone didn’t even reach all the way.

She looked up again to find the Guardian scrolling through her report with pursed lips. “Ishliah. I wonder if, perhaps, you weren’t completely honest in what you said?”

She clenched her jaw, the fear suddenly reaching a height she had never suspected. Was this why traitors deserted? She would do anything not to feel this way again…

But the Guardian merely smiled, stepping close, lowering his voice. “My dear. Do not worry. What you witnessed was…truly extraordinary, and of course you thought no one would believe you. But this is no longer an isolated incident. There have been…other reports, curious ones, and yours doesn’t quite line up. But if you tell me the truth now, all will be forgiven.”

Her eyes slid again to the holding pen. “All?”

He rested a hand on her back, turning her away, until she faced him and only him. “Now, Ishliah. Tell me about the angel.”

\--

“Tell me about the angel.”

Crowley tried to sit up straighter. His leg had healed, but now there was some great gaping gash across his stomach, and the way his manacled arm hung kept stretching the wound.

“He’s a complete hedonist. Foods. Wines. He goes to the barber every month. His hair doesn’t grow, he’s never had a beard, and he never even changes his look. I have no idea why he does it, except to have someone wash his hair and buff his nails. But he always comes out smiling, like he’s found the secret to peace on earth.”

“Nh,” the mirror image said. Crowley looked up to find he had a hand pressed to the bleeding wound on his neck. But it hadn’t sounded like a noise of pain. “I…uh, yeah. I know the look.”

“He likes to spoil me, too, when he has a chance. Trying to cheer me up, I think. I don’t tell him when it works, though. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. One time in Rome, there was this place with oysters—”

“Stop.”

Crowley looked across the cell, but his mirror image might as well have lost interest, tugging himself towards the corner to sleep.

\--

After three days of travel they reached Burton-upon-Trent.

The gang of wanderers divided into teams to explore, looking for supplies: food, medicine, clothing, shoes, anything that could be used as a weapon. Kasbeel and Lyla walked together with Squad A down the empty street, hot with the kind of blistering heat that only comes on a sunny day. Barricades were put up here and there, signs of the Marked painted on the walls, but no one came out to challenge them.

“I don’t like this,” Lyla muttered. “I don’t want to fight, but…where is everyone?”

All of the villages they’d passed had been abandoned. Apart from the angelic patrols, England was apparently empty.

Kasbeel shook his head. “The Sainsbury’s should be up ahead. Why don’t you…” he trailed off, looking at a few unbroken windows up the side of the street. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I have something to investigate here.”

Two hours later, Squad A emerged with four shopping trollies loaded with cans of soup, vegetables, powdered milk – everything they thought might still be edible after seven years. Lyla doubted it would last them more than a day or two.

No sooner had she stepped into the overly-bright day – she’d forgotten how painful the sun could be – then she heard a shriek, a high-pitched scream of a small child.

She spun, grabbing a can of food, ready to throw it at whatever angel, demon or human threatened her people –

The wanderers had gathered in the parking lot of the carwash across the street, and jets of water filled the air. She could still hear the children shrieking, but everyone else looked relaxed, calm, many of them smiling.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, prepared to push her way through the crowd, but they parted, pressing her forward until she saw the set up.

Four chairs, padded and high-backed, stood in a line across the parking lot. In each one, a child sat, dripping wet, while behind them the adults scrubbed and combed their hair, snipping with delicate scissors. They passed a hose up and down the line of chairs, rinsing the children off.

On one side, Alex had mastery of a single hose, waiting until a chair was free. “Next!” Ollie ran up, bouncing eagerly for his turn. Alex turned on the hose and drenched him, from head to toe, while the little boy shrieked, jumping up and down in the water. “Alright, you’re clean, go get your hair cut.”

On the other side, Kasbeel had set up a small table with two chairs. He sat on one side, and delicately rubbed at Mickey’s nails with an emery board, a pair of glasses she’d never seen before perched on his nose. “Ah, Lyla, you’re back. Join the queue, but be careful, many of the older customers are finding Alex’s methods a little intense.”

“What are you doing?” Lyla shoved at the table, causing little bottles of nail varnish to rattle. “You could have been helping us find food, and instead you’re – you’re wasting time!”

“I most certainly am not. Time is a precious commodity, you know, and ought never to be wasted.” He put down the emery board. “Do you want a color, Mickey? I think the pale pink would look wonderful.”

And Mickey – tough, stoic Mickey, veteran of five battles in the demonic army, Mark emblazoned on his brow for all to see – asked, “Can I try the gold? I like the way it shines.”

“Of course. A wonderful choice.”

“Look at me!” Lyla slammed her hand onto the table again. “What is wrong with you? We need to get everyone ready to move, we’re still _weeks_ away from London. We don’t need—”

“My dear, you most certainly _do_ need.” Kasbeel pulled off the glasses, brows snapping down. “Look at our people. They’ve been living in the mountains, in the dirt, covered in their own filth. It isn’t right.”

“So what? Who cares how we look? Humans lived like that for thousands of years. Our ancestors didn’t need to be pampered, they survived with the bare minimum—”

“Oh, no, who told you that?” Kasbeel shook a jar of nail varnish and began applying the first coat to Mickey’s nails. “I was there, and I can tell you. People bathed. People spent hours on their hair, and their eyebrows, and their nails, and elaborate henna tattoos, although I wasn’t able to find any supplies for that. It isn’t about wanting to look good, or to impress anyone. It’s about taking care of yourselves.” He blew a breath across Mickey’s nails, encouraging them to dry. “Being clean, being groomed, it makes humans feel human again.”

Lyla’s lip curled in disgust. But she looked back at the crowd, the smiling faces, the way the kids splashed in the puddles with bare feet, the way the adults laughed behind the stolen salon chairs, passing the hose back and forth. The teenagers all tugged at each other’s newly-short hair, running their fingers through it, marveling in how light it felt on a hot day.

She hadn’t seen her people like this. Hadn’t seen _anyone_ like this. Not in so very long.

“Fine. If that’s what you want. And since we’re clearly going to spend the rest of the day here, I might as well look for a place to sleep. Something that’s actually necessary.”

She stormed up the street, past the shattered windows of the salons and nail parlors, past the Sainsbury’s again, and around the corner. She kept walking until the sounds of the crowd at the carwash were long gone, then just stood, quietly, in the street.

She wanted to scream, until the knot in her stomach was gone. But she wasn’t a kid anymore, and she couldn’t find the voice for it. So, she just stood there, in the street, fists clenched.

Until Kasbeel’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Would you like to talk about it, my dear?”

“Talk about what? I told you – I’m – I’m looking for a place for us to stay.”

“There were plenty of townhouses in the other direction, you know. And I’ve already sent a team to explore them. Unless you think a, er, door stripping establishment would make a better place to spend the night.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m mad, I feel like I don’t have any control over my mind. I’m just – I have a million thoughts racing in my head and I can’t even slow down long enough to actually think any of them, I just know we have to _keep moving.”_

“You’re afraid,” he told her. “You’re stressed, and although I forget it sometimes, you are still very young. I shouldn’t ask so much of you.”

“I can handle it!”

“Yes, you can. You handle it very well, taking care of the others, taking care of your brother before that. But, you know,” his hand rested under her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his. “It’s perfectly alright to take care of yourself, too. Indulge a little. Let yourself be happy. They deserve it. You deserve it. And it will make you feel better.”

“I just…I’m not sure I _can_ relax anymore. What if they come for us while we’re all standing around, or—”

“If they do, I will be ready. I promise. I have not let my guard down for an instant.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, rubbed her back like a child. “That fear you feel. You know if the angels come back, there’s nothing you can do, but you want to be ready anyway. Your mind is telling you to find a solution that doesn’t exist. I’m sorry. But there is something you can do, I think.”

“What’s that?”

“There are many of my former colleagues who believe that anything which makes humans happy is a sin. I believe it is always worth indulging, just a little, to show them how little you care.”

\--

“Oh. And one other thing.” Gabriel wasn’t happy. He often wasn’t happy these days. Bringing about the end of the world, it seemed, was more complicated than anyone had expected.

Aziraphale kept his face carefully blank.

“We have reports of a gang of hundreds of humans moving south, but the scouts can’t seem to get near it. Vanishes every time they try. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”

“Yes. I’ve been following up on these rumors for some time. The circumstances appear to me, well, nearly incomprehensible.” He hesitated, but only for a second. “It would appear these humans are being led by a rogue angel, posing as a scout or a messenger.”

“Rogue? You mean a deserter?” A brief flash of anger in Gabriel’s eyes, but it quickly vanished, smoothed over by something calm and patient. “Well. At least my best agent is already on this. Glad you took the initiative. Now. Tell me about the angel.”

\--

The mirror image didn’t say anything today. He wasn’t a mirror image, either. He’d angered the angels who had come in earlier, refusing to cry out as they hurt him. Shoftiel had left him as a serpent, coiled mutely on the ground, and then they’d turned to Crowley.

“I can tell you about the angel,” Crowley offered. His throat was still raw from the screaming. They hadn’t even asked any questions, simply given him back his wings and broken every bone in them. It hurt, worse than almost anything else in the last three years. He wondered if it would ever stop hurting.

The serpent lifted his head, then let it fall heavily.

“He…he…” Crowley closed his eyes. It was so hard to think of a story. Not just the pain. His mind longed to be blank. “He is so soft. Like a cloud, like a warm blanket, like a pile of feathers. And that’s all most people ever see of him. A fool and a pushover and a – a – a lazy pleasure seeker who likes his books and his chair and his food. It’s what he wants, though. He wants to be soft.”

He closed his eyes and tilted back his head, ignoring the way his wings felt like a thousand pieces of shattered glass.

_Far away, an angel led a troop of humans down the motorway. He laughed as he walked, carrying one of the youngest on his back. In the week of travel, they’d grown dirty again, their nails had lost their color, their clothes become faded and stained. But they still smiled, still tossed their heads, running fingers through their hair. The young woman beside him had hers cropped almost completely off, exposing the Mark on her cheekbone._

_Suddenly, the angel stopped walking, his eyes locked on the sky above. None of the others had heard or sensed anything, but he knew what was coming. Three hundred humans gathered close in the shelter of his wide white wings, and his eyes took on the color of steel._

“But then…when he needs it…when the things he cares for are threatened…he isn’t soft at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you've forgotten Ishliah, she was healed by Aziraphale in the chapter "Miracle," which feels like ages ago now!


	18. Wayward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardian of Humanity comes to take Aziraphale's charges...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Torture, kidnapping, violence (nothing graphic)
> 
> After a quick vote on Tumblr, it was agreed that I should destroy Milton Keynes. However, the town was too spread out, so really only the McDonalds got wrecked. There is plenty of off-screen fighting, though, so feel free to destroy any sections you desire, except the Ikea, which I was told should remain intact.

“Run! Keep running!” Kasbeel flew, gliding at the back of his charges, scooping up the ones who fell behind and carrying them forward. He glanced behind him. At least twenty, thirty, forty angels descending on them from the sky.

Grabbing Ollie, he carried the boy to the front of the crowd, handing him off to an unburdened adult. “Lyla, I think you were correct. This is a planned strike. They knew we would be here.”

“Yeah. Told you.” She puffed, legs pounding on the pavement. “No way. This many people. Went unnoticed.” To their left and right, wide strips of blighted earth corralled them, forcing them to continue their straight path. “I thought we were in a town, where are the _buildings?”_

Aziraphale flapped his wings, gaining a bit of height to scan the road ahead. Then he plummeted down to land beside her. “Milton Keynes,” he explained, glancing back again. “Take a right at the next traffic circle, you should have at least half a dozen business parks to choose from. Plenty of parking lots, plenty of offices and stores. Split up, but keep the groups together. I’ll try to distract them.”

“You’re not going to freeze up again, are you?”

He closed his eyes, trying to sense the swarm of angels. Yes. _He_ was there, somewhere. “I don’t know, my dear.”

She nodded. “Everyone follow me! Get ready to scatter, on my mark, _not_ before!”

Kasbeel stopped running, and turned to face their pursuers. They stretched across the sky, rank on rank of shining pale wings, coming to take the people he’d sworn to protect.

Not on his watch.

An abandoned car sat nearby. Throwing every bit of power he could spare into his strength, Kasbeel grabbed it by the fender and threw it into the air.

The car spun through the air like a frisbee and struck two angels out of the sky. The rest wheeled, breaking ranks, scattering to attack from all directions.

One of the tumbling angels crashed through the roof of a fast food restaurant nearby. That wouldn’t slow them down for long. Kasbeel kicked off the road and flew across the tainted earth, looking down through the hole in the red roof, just as the other angel scrambled to his feet amongst the broken tables, struggling to straighten his helmet.

The angel unsheathed a flaming sword. “Identify yourself!”

“And ruin a perfectly good alias? I should think not.” The angel leapt upwards, wings unfurling; Kasbeel dropped like a stone, tackling the other angel around the middle before he could even swing his sword, slamming them both again into the tables and the cracked tile.

The other angel quickly regained his feet while Kasbeel rolled aside, looking for anything he could fight with. A chair? A table leg? No – he scrambled to the soda fountain, pulling it off the wall, and threw it at his opponent. But the flaming sword cut it in half without even slowing down.

The other angel finally got a look at Kasbeel’s face, and blinked in confusion. “Guardian…?”

“Er,” Kasbeel flapped his hands nervously. “Yes. I am your leader and – and you should return to our base peacefully. Oh, and leave the sword, please.”

“No,” the angel shook his head, stepping back into an attack position. “I don’t know what kind of trick this is, but you are not him.”

“Ooooh, I don’t have time for this,” Kasbeel groaned, looking for anything else to throw. No luck. The other angel was surely about to charge.

So Kasbeel charged him first, dropping down to roll into his legs, bowling him over before he could begin to react. He grabbed the flaming sword with both hands and twisted, pulling. “Terribly – sorry – old chap. But I need – a weapon!”

“I’m not going to—”

Kasbeel punched him in the jaw.

The other angel flopped back, stunned, just long enough for Kasbeel to pull the sword from his grip and take off, up through the roof, back along the road.

Trumpets rang out through the air. He felt them tug at his mind, felt the _other_ him accept them, absorb the orders into his mind unquestioningly, unhesitating, while Kasbeel struggled against the riptide of obedience.

_No. Fight it. We’re on our side. Our side. Not theirs._

He flapped his wings, hovering over the road, resisting the urge to fly forward, to join his brethren.

This was, often, the best he could do. Against any other angels, he could fight, he could lie, he could protect his charges. But here – in the presence of the Guardian of Humanity – he could only hide or flee.

Angels swooped down into the nest of office buildings and stores up ahead – a voice screamed –

“They are my people,” he growled under his breath, “my wards…my godchildren.”

He snapped his wings open, catching a bubble of heat rising from the concrete below and let it lift him up – up – up – until the entirety of Milton Keynes unfurled below him.

“I protect them. _Not you!”_

He folded his wings and dropped, a white streak cutting across the sky. He hit the pavement in a roll, coming up in a crouch, his sword pointed at one of the seven angels in the parking lot. Each held one of his children.

“Unhand them. Now.”

\--

Lyla tore up the road, clutching Alex’s hand, who held Chloe’s, who held Mickey’s – a chain of eight children and teenagers running as fast as their legs could carry them. They’d taken a wrong turn.

Wide open parking lots were visible on both sides, just beyond the stretches of blighted land that had once been cheerful grass and trees lining the street.

Her arm jerked backwards. “Lyla!” Ella called. “Ollie tripped!”

She ran back to the end, scooping the tiny boy into her arms. “Who else has a Mark? Ella? Mickey? Grab the littlest ones. We’re going to have to make our stand here.” A banged-up car sat nearby, that had crashed into the divider, spinning, blocking the road. “Maybe if we hid behind –"

“Lyla! Over here!” Alex had run further ahead, pointing excitedly to the left. “There’s a – a – a turning place! We can get in that building!”

“Go!” She waved the others ahead and clutched Ollie as tightly as she could. “Good job, Alex,” she called. “I knew we kept you around for something.”

“Looks like a bank,” the thirteen-year-old called with a grin, running backwards. “A _huge_ one! We’ll be able to—”

None of them saw the angel until too late, dropping from the sky, gathering Alex up in her arms. “Take the innocents,” she instructed, with a dazed smile that almost reached her silver eyes. Four more angels appeared around her.

“Let me go!” Alex screamed, kicking and squirming, trying to scratch the angel’s face. “I’m not innocent! I’m a – a rebellious piece of shit, I will _destroy_ your garden!”

“Scatter!” Lyla screamed, but there was nowhere to go. The four angels moved quickly, surrounding them, as the one with gold-tipped feathers and scars down her arms gently lifted into the air, holding the screaming, fighting Alex as easily as a baby.

Another angel picked up Chloe, a third took Isaac out of Ella’s arms. Dominic and Mariah crouched behind Mickey, who held a brick in his hand, looking ready to fight the angel in front of him. And the last one stepped towards Lyla. “No,” she moaned holding Ollie tightly. “Not again, not again, you piece of—”

A flash of white slammed into the angel, and the two rolled away in a flurry of feathers, crashing into a car. Kasbeel came up on top, sitting on the other angel’s stomach, fiery sword pointed downward. “Do you know who I am? Look at me! _Do you know who I am?”_

The pinned angel blinked. “A…Aziraphale?”

“Yes!” Kasbeel dabbed his forehead with a sleeve, where sweat and golden blood mixed together. _“I_ am Aziraphale, _I_ am the Guardian. You will leave these children – these innocents – and return to New Eden. Do you understand?” He looked at the other angels, numbly holding their abducted charges. Two more brows were beginning to furrow in confusion.

“But…” the angel holding Chloe started. “Our orders?”

“Orders change. This is…this is right from the top. As you can see. Now put them…down…” He stood up, watching the other angels.

Chloe was back on the ground almost immediately, but the angel holding Isaac stood, still smiling, head tilted to one side. Kasbeel walked towards her, sword pointed forward, burning with blue-white flames. “Do not make me fight you,” he said, slowly and clearly. “I only want you to put the child down…and return to New Eden. Can you do that?”

The angel tilted her head the other way, then handed Isaac back to Ella. A second later, all four of them shot off into the air.

“Oh, thank humanity,” Kasbeel murmured, staggering a little. “I think it’s…starting to work.” He smiled blearily at the children.

“Kasbeel! Are you alright?” Lyla ran over to look at his head. A gash ran just under his hairline, thin but bleeding quite a bit.

“Tip-top and tickety-boo,” he shook his head, blinking his eyes rapidly. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Wait – Alex!” Lyla spun around, counting her group. “They still have Alex! An angel with white and gold wings…”

Kasbeel scanned the sky. “Over there, I see them.” His wings flapped – sounding heavy and noisy compared to the other angels – and off he went into the sky.

“What _was_ that?” Mickey demanded, coming up beside her.

“What do you mean?” Lyla didn’t take her eyes off the distant white specks. They stood out against the sky, which seemed a little dimmer than it had been; one circled the other, little flashes of light against the dark blue. She couldn’t see Alex at all.

“I mean – how did he do that? Convince the angels he was their leader?”

“Hm? Oh, Kasbeel looks just like the Guardian of Humanity. He’s, I don’t know, a clone or something.”

“The hell does that mean?” Mickey demanded. “Clones? You seriously think that’s how angels work?”

“Um, yeah?” Lyla glanced down just for a second to frown at him. “Like all those demons that look the same? What are they called, Eric? Same thing, right?”

“No, not the same thing.” Mickey scratched at his Mark, black brand just above his right eyebrow. “How long were you with the Marked ones before you joined him?”

“Only about two minutes. It’s kind of a weird story.”

“Because I was with them for seven years,” Ella said, stepping up to her other side. “And that thing Legion has going on? Is unique. No other demons are identical like that.”

“And definitely not any angels,” Mickey added.

“What?” Lyla glanced between them. “You’re wrong, ok? I saw it myself. The Guardian took my brother right out of my arms. He looked like Kasbeel, talked like him, even smiled the same way. It was really scary. But they were both there – at the same time – so I know it’s not some kind of trick.”

“Look, even if they’re, I don’t know, twins or something?” Mickey shook his head. “Angels can’t just – override orders like that. I used to fight against them. And the angels are…look, once those trumpets go, nothing in the world can change their minds. So that? That was impossible.”

A trumpet blast echoed over Milton Keynes.

One of the two white shapes above departed.

\--

Kasbeel clutched Alex tightly in one arm, his sword in the other, flapping exhausted wings to try and stay aloft. “Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

“Nnnnh,” the child managed, drowsy. The Retrieval angels often put their captives to sleep.

“It’s alright. We’re almost down.” He’d drifted away from the shopping area. Below was some sort of oddly-shaped grid of roads, filled with almost-identical houses. It looked like the other angels were departing. He didn’t know if there were any losses, but he couldn’t rush after any more until Alex was safe, anyway.

He landed, stumbling, at an intersection: brick road, brick sidewalk, brick walls surrounding the blighted gardens of brick houses. The trees that had once stood at every corner were long dead, but it still seemed shady and cool. He put down his sword and carefully stretched the child out on the ground. “Wake up, dear. I’ll need you to find—”

Something stuck his ribs, sending him staggering down the street, dropping his sword.

Kasbeel looked up into –

Into his own face.

Aziraphale, the Guardian of Humanity, armed with a flaming sword. _Two_ flaming swords, as he retrieved the second from the ground.

The wave of obedience crashed into Kasbeel again, but it was scattered this time, less certain. Perhaps he’d finally learned to resist it properly, or at least enough to stay on his feet.

“Did you kill any of our brethren?” the Guardian demanded.

“No. Certainly not if you heal the ones I fought.” Kasbeel pressed a hand to his ribs. They hurt, but he could easily have been killed if the angel hadn’t wanted answers. “Did you harm any of my children?”

“I would never harm any human,” the Guardian said simply. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“That’s…rather a complicated question.” He scrubbed at his forehead, trying to think clearly. “Where do you take them? Is it far?”

“New Eden. Its location is one of Heaven’s most guarded secrets, you won’t get it from me.” He slowly circled, eyes locked on Kasbeel. “Are you here to stop my work?”

“Not initially,” he conceded. “But I’m afraid it’s become something of a hobby for me.” Another wave lapped over his mind, telling him to relax…filling his mind with questions…

Why would an angel’s mind be full of questions?

“An interrogation,” he realized. “I’m not resisting, the orders are just confused – you’re interrogating me, and I’m interrogating you back.”

Well, if there was one thing Kasbeel was better at, it was asking questions. He’d had the very best teacher. “Why would they send you? Do they not know who they’re dealing with?”

“I do as I’m ordered, and I don’t ask questions. Why would you resist?”

“Because I cut ties with Heaven _years_ ago. As you should have. Why are you helping them?”

“This is what’s best for humanity.” The Guardian sheathed one sword, keeping the other unwaveringly pointed at Kasbeel’s chest. “It’s for the best.”

“It most certainly is not!” Kasbeel spread his arms, gesturing to the rapidly dimming street. “Look around you! This world is _dying._ What will remain? Not food, not books, not music. Why aren’t you trying to protect _that?”_

“I am protecting it! The humans will recreate all that in New Eden. Once they learn to obey. Why would you want to stop that?”

“Because I happen to have noticed, young man, that it is humanity’s disobedience and – and willful nature that leads to their best developments!”

“I’m not younger than you.”

“You’re certainly more foolish.” Kasbeel stepped forward, ignoring the blade, looking only at the Guardian’s eyes. They were wide, worried. The interrogation wasn’t going as planned, and he didn’t know what to do. “Look at yourself. The Trumpets might make it easier to practice perfect obedience, but they leave you unable to adapt. Every soldier knows that’s more important – I learned that in the first war! Why didn’t you?”

“I did,” he said through clenched teeth. “But things…changed…”

“They certainly have. And now it appears that I can command your soldiers. Your days of stealing children are coming to an end. I will find your prison and—”

He was cut off by a hand slammed into his throat, shoving him against the wall. The Guardian towered over him, holding – not a sword, a little glass screen, like what the angels used in Heaven, like Crowley’s smart telephone.

This one showed an image of Crowley, chained to a wall in a dark room. His wings were stretched to either side of him, nails driven through the soft flesh, already looking misshapen and ragged. An angel stood before him, with a hammer. The video began to play.

“Ahhh! Aaaaaaah!” Crowley cried out, over and over again. “What do you want? Just ask me a question, I’ll – AAAAH!” He screamed as the hammer crashed into the delicate bones of his left wing. “Stop! Please, don’t – AAAAH!” Another swing, another snapping noise.

The angel in the video paused in his work, switching to a larger hammer. Crowley collapsed forward, pulling against chain and nails, sobbing. “…Aziraphale…” he moaned.

“Crowley…” He looked up at the Guardian before him, trying to stay calm. “How long…have you had…Crowley?”

“Years.”

With a scream, Aziraphale rushed the other angel, throwing him back, away from the wall, into the street. He felt the pressure of obedience snap in his head, dissipating in an instant, as he threw his fists against the Guardian again and again. “Give him back to me! Give him back! You awful – you _monster—”_

The Guardian’s wings flashed and in an instant, he was shooting away across the dark sky. “Get back here you _coward!”_

“…Kasbeel?” A soft voice. Alex still lay on the street, just waking up.

“I’m here, child, I’m here,” choking back his anger, Kasbeel knelt beside godchild, pressing lips to the forehead. His own face was wet. “How are you feeling?”

“Mmmmmh,” Alex moaned. “How long was I asleep? It’s night?”

“No, it should still…” But while he’d been distracted, the town around them had grown dark. Kasbeel looked up. The sun was still overhead, but it had turned black as if covered in sackcloth.

The sun was going out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I am...really sorry about this. But also excited! One of my goals when I started was to show some of these final bits of Revelations/End Times prophecy, just because the imagery is cool; but of course imagery takes a back seat to story.
> 
> (I don't know if anyone caught it, but the angel grabbing Alex is Ishliah. Because of how the POVs worked out, there was no way to confirm this in-story.)


	19. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the sky goes dark, Aziraphale tries to get his godchildren to London...

Kasbeel landed on the far side of Milton Keynes and hummed his wings. They would hear it, even at this distance, but it would take his godchildren some time to find the parking lot. Time they didn’t have.

He set Alex down beside the glass doors of the enormous steel building. They didn’t slide open automatically, but few things worked anymore. “I’m going to need to leave you here while I gather the others,” Kasbeel explained. “I believe there is a café of some description inside. See if any food survived the last seven years, you should know what to look for.”

“Ok,” Alex glanced nervously at the nearly-black sky. “They…the angels aren’t coming back, right?”

“I don’t know.” A metal fence ran beside the walkway, each pole twisted and rusted through. He picked out one that looked mostly solid and snapped it free. “If anyone tries to bother you, hit them with this repeatedly and scream as loud as you can.”

“Yes, sir!” Alex grinned, taking the metal rod.

“Oh, and as our people arrive, let them know they’re to gather at the covered area over there.” He pointed right. “I will return shortly.”

As he turned away, a wave of nausea – exhaustion – overtook Kasbeel. He ignored it, wiping more golden blood from his forehead. Not yet. Not yet.

\--

Two hours later, Lyla stood just past the covered walkway, watching Kasbeel return from the dark sky. He flew much lower than he usually did, though he only carried Sofia. He stumbled as he landed, but carefully placed the nine-year-old girl onto the ground. “That’s…that’s all I could find.”

“Inez is still missing,” Lyla said. “And Ravi.”

“No, they were with me,” Sophia said, tears in her eyes. “Angels got them. They told me to hide under a car and…it worked…”

“That’s everyone accounted for, then,” Kasbeel said. She’d never realized an angel could look so pale. “Seven taken. I…I’m truly sorry…I did my best…”

Lyla pulled his arm over her shoulders and he leaned on her, heavily. “Look, you need rest. Why don’t you find someplace to stay for the…the night…” she glanced up at the blue-black sky, cinder sun still well above the horizon. Stars were already coming out. “We’ll be fine here.”

“No. You won’t.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. Ella was gesturing at Lyla to bring him over, several others were talking to Mickey. Some of the looks shot towards Kasbeel were grateful. Most weren’t.

“I think…I think they’re going to have some questions for you.”

“Ah. They saw him. I’m surprised I was able to keep it secret as long as I did.” He pushed himself upright. “Do you still trust me, Lyla?”

“I…don’t know. Should I?”

Instead of answering, he shuffled forward, resting his hands on the railing. “I suppose you’ve all heard by now.” A hush fell over the gathering, and his weakened voice seemed to carry, reverberating through the air. “And I want to tell you…it’s true. I am Aziraphale. Angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Earth. But not this Earth.”

To Lyla, it was just a rush of voices; she couldn’t make any sense of the shouts. But he just nodded as if he heard every word. “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense. I fell through a – a hole in the sky, and I wound up here. On my Earth, none of this happened. We stopped the Apocalypse. No, I was barely involved. The humans stopped it, mostly.” He looked around the crowd. “I don’t know why that didn’t happen here. But I am…truly sorry for everything you have suffered.”

Another roar from the crowd, backing away, pulling the children from him. “This isn’t a trick!” He lost his balance for a moment, almost bending double over the railing. “What would I have to gain? The Guardian…the other Aziraphale…he could have taken all of you…”

Lyla stepped up beside him, rested a hand between his wings. “Kasbeel…I mean, A – Aziraphale…perhaps you should go. We can find our way to London from here. It’s only another week, maybe less.”

“You won’t make it!” He pointed to the sky. “The sun is already being extinguished. Next the moon, then the stars will fall – three days at most, almost certainly less.” He looked around the crowd, struggling to regain his composure. “I don’t know if you’ll be safe there, I don’t know if anywhere is safe, but…I will get you there. I promised.”

“How?” she demanded. “You’re half-dead and it’s forty miles away.”

“My dear Lyla. Don’t you know where you are?” He gestured around the enormous parking lot, towards the oversized vehicles left abandoned by the covered waiting area. “This is a bus station.”

\--

Aziraphale leaned against the largest bus, trying to catch his breath. Not that he needed to breathe, but it really shouldn’t hurt this much to do so. He was only bleeding from a few spots, but he suspected the damage was worse than he’d originally thought.

He didn’t know what would happen if he discorporated here. So, he would simply have to do his level best not to.

Lyla stepped off the bus, shaking her head. “Well, it’ll only fit about seventy-five people, but you’ll be lucky if that many are willing to let you drive them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I never learned to drive.” He shifted, pressing a hand against his ribs. “I’m going to fly it.”

“Fly it?” She glanced down the length of the bus, about seventy or eighty feet, several tons of steel. “Is that…something angels can do?”

“Well, I managed it once.” He smiled as confidently as he could. “Er, with two bodies on a scooter. But the principle is the same, and if I can replicate the feat, we should be in London in, oh, a matter of minutes. And across that energy barrier. I believe I know how to cross it.”

Lyla leaned closer, running a finger over the cut on his forehead. It stung, in a strangely bright way, causing stars to flash across his vision. “Fine. Is that something _you_ can do? You look like you’re in a lot of pain.”

“I am.” He grimaced. “But my friend is in worse pain.” He could still hear the screams from the video. How long had Crowley been screaming? “I _will_ see you all safe, and then I _will_ rescue him and…”

“And _what?_ You just told me the world ends in three days.”

“Well, precisely.” He smiled, trying to make it more hopeful than he actually felt. “Plenty of time. Once Crowley and I start working together…”

His eyes fell on the moon, just past first quarter, rising above the horizon. It was red as blood.

“Everyone on the bus.”

No one moved.

“Please. I promise I will get you there.”

Ollie started to walk forward, but Mickey grabbed his hand and pulled him back.

“My friends…” He pushed himself to stand up straight, ignoring the flashes of light at the edges of his vision. “No. I suppose I can’t call you that. If I were really your friend, I would have told you the truth from the beginning. But despite that, you trusted me. For nearly three and a half years, you’ve followed me, and I tried to keep you from danger.”

He shuffled forward, and the crowd pulled back slightly. “I know. I failed. We lost seven people today. I’ve led you, without supplies, without shelter to _Milton Keynes_ of all places. But I won’t abandon you here. Let me lead you, one more time, to safety. And then you can…you can all leave, and spend what time you have left as you wish.”

Silence settled over the bus station.

“Wow. You know we don’t care about any of that, right?” Alex stepped forward still holding the metal bar. “Look, can that freaky double read your mind?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Er. No, not in any meaningful way.”

“Can he sense where you are?”

“Not at all, I should think.”

“The first time, he stood as close to you as I am now,” Lyla remembered. “Never even turned his head.”

“Alright.” Alex turned and waved to the crowd. “You heard them. Everyone on the bus.” And immediately, two hundred and seventy-three humans surged forward, filing quietly onboard.

“That’s…why…?” Aziraphale stared after them, at a loss for words.

Alex stepped next to him and scoffed. “You really think we didn’t trust you? Come on, Kasbeel, have a _little_ faith.”

\--

It would have taken much more than a miracle to sit that many people comfortably. They sat in each other’s laps, stood in the aisle and the doorwells, pressed as tightly together as the human body allowed. Someone even attempted to ride in the loo, but quickly abandoned that idea.

“I imagine this is how it feels to ride the Underground,” the angel commented, looking for a button that might start the bus.

“So if you never learned to drive,” Lyla asked, pressed against the back of his seat, “and you never rode public transport, how did you ever get anywhere? Flying?”

“Heavens, no. Crowley drove me.” A pained smiled fought across his face. “Ah, this must be it.”

He pressed the button.

The engine revved, and kept revving, several octaves above its usual pitch.

The bus jolted, pressing two hundred and seventy-four humans (and one angel) even closer together. Several in the aisle would have fallen from the change in balance, except there wasn’t even room to move.

“Right. Everyone hold on to…something!”

The whine of the engine reached a level humans couldn’t even hear.

And the bus shot forward.

The speedometer topped out at 150 mph, but they accelerated past that in the first seconds.

\--

All along the M1, abandoned cars vibrated, bits of rock trembled in the still air.

A flash of blue-shifted light, shaped something like an inter-city bus, streaked past ten feet above the ground, vanishing in a blaze of red against the star-speckled sky. Five seconds later, anything on the motorway that was still flammable spontaneously ignited.

By the time the sonic boom arrived, the bus was nearly to London.

\--

“What’s that? Is that it?” Lyla leaned over the angel’s shoulder straining to see through the windscreen.

“I hardly think that could be possible, we haven’t been driving for two minutes.”

“But we’ve got to be going nearly the speed of light!”

“My dear child, _no._ That would be dangerous.”

“We wouldn’t have passed that quickly if it was London,” Mickey pointed out. “Looked like a couple of warehouses.”

“There! That’s it!”

“No, that’s a service station,” said Mrs. Sherwood, somehow managing to stand despite carrying a child on each hip. “Used to be where you’d stop to put petrol in the car.”

“Oh. Hey,” Lyla leaned forward again. “Do we need petrol? Because if it takes more to drive fast, than we’d probably run out—”

“Lyla, _please!”_ The bus lurched upwards, dodging above an overpass. “I am trying to break the laws of physics here, I do not need _distractions!”_

“Are we there yet?” called a child’s voice.

“Yes, yes!” Lyla slapped his shoulder. “There it is! A city! Just ahead! London!”

“No, that’s too soon…”

“I see a map!” Mickey pointed to a pocket on the side of Aziraphale’s seat.

“Got it!” Lyla leaned down to grab it at the same time Mickey did, cracking their skulls together. “Ow! Come on, I’m the navigator here, I should get to read the map.”

“Who said you’re the navigator? Navigator’s the one who calls—”

“Shotgun!” Alex squeezed between them, elbowing Mickey hard in the stomach. In a flurry of paper the map spread between the teenagers, showing the whole of England.

“Right. London’s over here, isn’t it?” Lyla jabbed with a finger.

“Don’t you even know how to read? That’s Sheffield!” Mickey traced a finger across the endless squiggles. “London is…here. And we’re coming down this road, so that’s…Luton! We passed Luton.”

“Wonderful,” the angel said, jaw tight. Lyla suddenly realized the strain he was under – his forehead broken out in a sheen of sweat, the cut on his forehead dripping golden blood again.

“Are you going to make it?”

“I can…keep this up for hours,” he assured her, though his smile wasn’t very convincing.

“Hey, Kasbeel?”

“Is this important, Alex?”

“I think so.” Alex’s voice was much more subdued than normal. “I think one of the stars just fell.”

All eyes turned to the windscreen, at the stars that filled the sky between the grey sun and the blood-red moon. Ahead of them, Arcturus trembled, broke loose, and streaked down towards the horizon.

The bus accelerated.

\--

Aziraphale was nearly gasping, bent over the wheel, trying to hold everything together. He had to think of everything, the shape of the bus, the bodies inside, the air – humans needed air, this wouldn’t work if it all pooled at the back. The edges of his vision were already fading dark, and still the stars, Crowley’s stars, fell from their appointed places.

But there, ahead, the strange heat-haze glow of the M25, the demonic sigil surrounding London, sealing everyone in. “Ha,” he said, too tired to actually laugh. He could just make out beyond it – the fields still green, still lit by a sun he couldn’t see, the towers of the city rearing high. The rumors were true. The city was safe.

As he had seven years before, Aziraphale concentrated on the counter to the sigil Odegra, which would allow him to pass across the barrier unharmed.

Nothing happened.

“Who has the map?” His hand reached frantically towards the children behind him. “Someone! I need to see the map of London!”

Paper hit his hand, and he tore his eyes away from the road just long enough to look at the shape of the M25, the crooked ring looped around London.

It was a demonic sigil.

It was not Odegra.

It wasn’t anything he recognized.

_Different Earth. Different Crowley._

“Oh…fuck,” Aziraphale said weakly, as the bus careened at full speed into the wall of light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> How's that for a cliffhanger?
> 
> Can you believe I nearly went straight from healing Ishliah to arriving in London? Look at EVERYTHING we would have skipped!
> 
> I have two more sections I planned to post tonight, but my computer is going a little wonky. They may have to wait until the morning. After that - a break as I actually write more sections! (I have an outline for the rest, but man do the details often surprise me!)


	20. Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The alternate Crowley is interrogated, and remembers better days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Torture, severe mood whiplash
> 
> (Technically these scenes do not contain sex, but we don't miss it by much. This is the closest I've yet written to anything explicit. Happy Good Omens Anniversary.)

_One thousand, nine hundred eighty-six years ago_

Crowley reclined in the garden, his eyes closed, listening to water rush from the fountain nearby. His head was in Aziraphale’s lap, which was softer than any pillow. The angel’s fingers ran through his hair, again and again, as his own fingers ran through the rich, soft grass around them. It was a new sensation, fingers through his hair, soft and gentle and warm. He liked it.

“Hey. Angel.” He cracked open one eye to see those white curls framed by blue sky and green, leafy trees. “Isn’t it winter? Or have I been lying here longer than I thought?”

“I may have…cheated a little,” Aziraphale confessed, looking at the plants, growing thick and healthy all around. “But the walls are high and no one can see. And I like to have the color, even in the middle of winter.”

Wiggling a little closer, Crowley laughed. “You know, for four thousand years, I thought were the worst sort of rule-bound…obedient…prick. But maybe we have more in common than I thought.”

The fingers in his hair hesitated. “I’m not…sure that’s a good thing…”

Crowley caught Aziraphale’s other hand, pulled it to his lips. There was a scent to the angel – something entirely unique – and he couldn’t get enough of it. “I like gardens, too, you know.”

“Oh.” Fingers glided through his hair again, tugging at the curls. “Well. No harm in that, I suppose.” Aziraphale hesitated for a moment. “I like…well, everything in Heaven always needs to be so carefully ordered, so perfectly balanced. But a garden can be a little chaotic, and it all still works.”

“Mmh. I also like chaos.” Crowley grinned. “Might be a little harm in that.”

“Stop that.” He pulled his hand free, but didn’t move away. Instead, he ran his knuckles down the side of Crowley’s face, tracing over his sigil. “Order is good. How else can we ensure the sun rises, the tides recede, the seasons come and go? Where would the world be if all were chaos?”

“Nh. That all takes care of itself, though, doesn’t it? And if we ran everything that way, nothing new would ever happen.” His fingers reached up to brush Aziraphale’s cheek. “I like new.”

The angel blushed pink and turned away. Crowley’s heart nearly broke out of his chest. He never realized that just _looking_ at someone could be so thrilling. He’d need to investigate more.

“I’m terribly sorry. I – I’m talking about work again, and we should be – we were – oh, what…”

“Shhh, I don’t mind.” Crowley’s fingers traced up into Aziraphale’s curls. “Everything you say sounds like poetry.”

“Oh.” Another blush. “I…don’t know about _that.”_

_“The sound of your voice is sweet,  
Full like the taste of date wine  
And I, drunken girl in a tangle of flowers  
Live only a captive to hear it.” **[1]**_

“Stop that, I know you’re just trying to embarrass me.”

“A little.” He watched the way a smile tugged at the sides of Aziraphale’s lips. He wanted to reach up and kiss them again.

It was intoxicating.

Aziraphale’s hand fell to brush the side of his glasses. “Why do you wear these? I like to see who I’m talking to.”

The whole day turned a little darker. “You can see me just fine. Leave them.”

“Silly demon. You have lovely eyes.” Fingers gripped the wire frames. “Let me just—”

_“Don’t!”_

The word cut across the peace of the garden. For a long moment, Aziraphale was poised to pull them from his face. Crowley waited, tense.

“Well. Alright then.” Aziraphale leaned down and brushed his lips across Crowley’s brow. “Be foolish if you like. I don’t mind.”

Crowley pulled the angel down into a kiss, fingers tangling in his hair, mouth questioning, searching for something. After a moment, Aziraphale pulled back. “Perhaps we should…go inside?”

“I like it here,” Crowley mumbled.

Fingers carded through his hair again. “Then we stay.”

\--

_Seven years, six weeks ago_

Footsteps echoed across a stone floor. The creak of a folding chair.

Crowley cracked one eye open to meet the smiling face of an angel. Didn’t know this one. Long dark hair, thick white beard.

“Ah, good. You’re awake.”

“Nh. Wish I wasn’t.” He ran his fingers along the floor and wall behind him. Stone, hard stone, rough and cold. He only had one hand to explore with; his right arm was chained up, a silver cuff that burned slightly. “This a holy manacle? S’that necessary?”

“We do need to be sure. How are you feeling, otherwise?”

“Like I just got my head kicked in by a dozen angels.” He lifted his left hand and scrubbed it across his forehead. It didn’t feel shattered, but the pain was there. Had they healed him?

“Interesting.” His captor smiled pleasantly. They all smiled like that. Lying bastards, every last one of them. “That’s not exactly what happened. Is your memory effected, or are you simply exaggerating? What’s the last thing you remember clearly?”

Aziraphale’s voice. _Hush, dear. Don’t struggle. This is for the best…_

His hand shot to the twisted bit of metal around his neck. It was warm, almost comfortable in the way it stretched over his skin. But touching it made the bile rise in his throat; the memory made his stomach twist, his hands clench, a scream start to form somewhere deep inside.

“Ah, yes. Your angel friend asked for the honor of putting that on you himself.”

“Not my friend.” Crowley barely managed to swallow down the scream.

The angel leaned a little closer. “I was being delicate. Aziraphale did inform us of the details of your former…relationship.” His voice curled distastefully around the word.

Crowley clenched his jaw, but tried not to show any other emotion. “Well. Call it a rough patch.”

The angel sat back for a moment, considering Crowley. His kind eyes gave away nothing. “He did say you’d be willing to share information with us. If we asked nicely. This is me, asking nicely.”

“Well, turns out he’s…” No, he could still feel Aziraphale’s knees in his back, hands on his face, pressing him down for the other angels to capture. He wasn’t ready to be witty. He wasn’t ready to be anything. “No. I won’t.”

The angel stood up, and walked closer to Crowley. He tensed, waiting for what would come next. But the angel simply knelt in front of him. “I’m being rude. My name is Shoftiel. I’ve been assigned to be your warden, Crowley. Do you prefer Crowley? Or Anthony? I’m to watch over you and find out what you know. Your time here doesn’t have to be uncomfortable.”

“Well, I like big open gardens, fresh air, and my car. Can you arrange that?”

“And I like being able to see who I’m talking to.” Shoftiel’s hand flashed out and pulled Crowley’s glasses from his face.

At the shock of being exposed, Crowley twisted his head away, trying to pull back, but there was nowhere to go.

“That’s better.” The angel studied the glasses. “Interesting design. Made to completely obscure all trace of your eyes. With these, you can almost pass for human, at least to mortal senses. Why would a demon be so desperate to hide his true self?”

“Not desperate. They’re cool.”

“Is that so?” He folded up the glasses and put them in his pocket. “And what about your eyes?” Once again, his hand moved faster than Crowley could follow, this time grabbing his chin, jerking his face to meet Shoftiel’s eyes. “Yes. You try to make them look human, but you can’t. What’s the point of such an illusion?”

Crowley could feel them shifting, the irises becoming wider, the sclera shrinking to nothing, pupils becoming more slitted. Color faded from the world, drained away as his eyes became completely serpentine. He could feel the scales beginning to appear on his flesh. “Stop it. Stop!”

How could something so simple reduce him to such a panic?

When Shoftiel released him, Crowley scrubbed his free hand across his eyes. “You _wanker._ How would you like it if I—” They refused to shift back. “What did you do? For Satan’s sake, what did you _do?_ Change them back, you petty asshole—”

Shoftiel’s fist connected with his jaw, so hard he felt the tendons snap it back into place. A sour, metallic taste on his tongue; Crowley spit out the mouthful of blood, black and tarry.

“Let that be a lesson. I won’t tolerate rudeness.”

“Rude? _Rude?_ I’ll show you what rude looks like, you fucking—”

This time he thought his jaw might actually snap off, his head ricocheting back against the stone wall, blood flooding his mouth until he was choking on it. Even as he struggled, spitting and coughing, Shoftiel grabbed his hair and jerked his head to the side, twisting his neck. “Enough. You’ve already ruined the pleasantries. I suppose we might as well move on to business.”

The chain pulled free of the wall, and the angel dragged him across the floor by his hair, as Crowley struggled to get his feet under him. There was a table, in the corner, and Shoftiel slammed his face down on it, causing vials and tools to rattle. Hammers, knives and other things Crowley recognized. An observant demon can learn a lot in Hell, and even more from humans.

“Now,” Shoftiel said, “you’re going to tell me what you learned about Hell’s plans for the Apocalypse, and how you intended to stop it.”

\--

_One thousand eight hundred and thirty-four years ago_

They met more often than they should.

They talked, ate dinner, went to the theater, drank far too much wine. They kissed and held each other. It felt good. They each said there was no other reason.

But there was one line they would not cross, because there would be no going back. They had to be sure.

And then, one night, they were. They crossed that Rubicon, and the walls of the city trembled around them.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley pulling him close, as they lay on the bed together afterwards, gasping for breath. “Oh – oh _Angel.”_ He couldn’t find anything to say. He never thought he could _feel_ like that. It was better than Heaven. He was sure he was _glowing._ Crowley pressed his lips into Aziraphale’s sweat-soaked hair.

But something was wrong. Aziraphale had burrowed his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck and wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t say anything.

“Angel? Are you alright? Oh, Satan, did I hurt you?”

“…no…” he managed weakly, pressing even further into Crowley’s shoulder. “It was…good…”

“What’s wrong? Did you – did you change your mind? Do you regret it? I’m sorry, this was my idea, I should have—”

“No. My idea, too.” His fingers gripped Crowley even tighter, and now he could see the deep red blush spreading up Aziraphale’s face and down his neck. “I just…didn’t realize…it would be so _loud.”_

Crowley threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, loud is _good._ I liked that.” He kissed the burning skin of Aziraphale’s cheek, even as the angel tried to hide again.

“But it wasn’t… _dignified.”_

“I’m not here for _dignified._ Angel, those things you said…”

_“Blasphemy!”_

“Poetry!” He kissed Aziraphale’s brow until one blue eye finally emerged to meet his gaze. “The most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. Do you…” he paused, suddenly shy. “Do you…want to go again?”

Aziraphale lifted his face, smiling and pink, and nodded, pushing Crowley down into the bed. He leaned close, breath hot on Crowley’s ear: “This time, I want to hear _you_ scream.”

\--

_Seven years, one week ago_

“I must say,” Shoftiel said, carefully stirring the holy water with the blade of his knife, black blood dissolving in an instant, “I don’t think we’re making much progress at all.”

Crowley clenched his jaw, bracing himself, pulling against the chains that held him to the table. He was face-down today, back already aflame with pain.

“The Apocalypse starts any day now. You said you had a plan to stop it. We need to know if any part of it was in motion when we took you in. Just a yes or a no, Crowley.”

The wet blade slid across Crowley’s shoulder, parting the skin, searing into him. He tried not to scream. He lasted a few seconds this time.

“Do you know who’s going to be disappointed? Aziraphale. He told us you knew so much, that you’d be willing to share with a little…encouragement. He’s counting on that information.”

“I was lying,” Crowley grunted. “Alright? I just wanted him to meet me for…for my wicked scheme. I’d have said anything.”

“No. You’re lying to me now.” The blade trailed down his spine, making the flesh boil and split. “But you don’t lie to Aziraphale. He told us that. In almost two thousand years, not one single lie. Except when you said you’d meet him in London, but I suppose you did eventually.”

“He – he told you…” For a few seconds, Crowley could only remember that last night together, in Paris, two centuries before, the look in Aziraphale’s eyes…

No, that hurt worse.

“Aziraphale told us everything. That’s why _he_ is working on key, high-priority projects while _you_ are spending your time with me.”

“If you’ve got…somewhere important…I won’t…keep you.”

“Ah, but then who would look after you?” The blade swirled in the holy water again. “I suppose, I could ask Aziraphale to come question you. Would you lie to him? After all this time?” The knife hovered over Crowley’s face, a drop of water balanced perfectly on the tip. “He’s been asking to sit in. I think he likes to hear you scream. What do you say? Shall we invite him up?”

It all echoed through his head in a moment. The screaming. The laughing. The bickering. Sitting together in blissful silence.

_Hush dear. Don’t struggle. This is for the best…_

“No,” Crowley whispered. “Anything but that.”

“Anything?”

Crowley closed his eyes and nodded. “Go ahead.”

The drop of holy water fell on his cheek.

He screamed until the walls trembled.

\--

_Seven hundred eighty-four years ago_

Crowley slammed open the door of the tiny room in the attic of the inn, face furious. “They _left.”_

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” Aziraphale said, pouring another cup of wine. “Who left?”

“The army! The entire bloody Mongol horde!” He snatched the cup out of Aziraphale’s hand and drained it in one gulp. “Twenty years – twenty _years_ I spent taking credit for all their victories, and then some leader dies and the whole army just packs in and heads back to wherever they came from. _One week before my performance review!”_

“Sorry, who died?”

“Oh, you know. Ogedei.”

“I see. So, by _some leader_ you mean the Great Kahn of the entire empire?”

“I suppose.” Crowley threw himself dramatically onto the bed. “Why? Why does this keep happening? Why do the humans _hate_ me so much?”

With a sigh, Aziraphale crossed to sit beside him. “It’s not that they hate you. They don’t even think about you. Highly inconsiderate, I know.” His lips turned up in a smile. “I’m sure they don’t do it on purpose.”

“Don’t _you_ start… _condescending_ at me.” He rolled over onto his side, staring through his glasses out the gable window, frozen rain pouring down. “You see this? _This_ is why I never bother. Bloody humans, work against you every time.”

“I…yes, dear.” His hand patted Crowley’s shoulder gently.

“What?” He spun back, scowling. “You have something to say, Angel?”

“Only that this isn’t what it looks like when you actually try. Yes, you’ve been following them for twenty years, but you didn’t do anything to _help,_ did you?”

“Course not. ‘S all battle stuff. Not my scene.”

“Exactly. Now.” He tugged at Crowley’s shoulders, until the demon shifted, laying his head on Aziraphale’s lap. “When you do want to succeed at something, oh, the _planning_ that goes into it.” His fingers scratched gently at Crowley’s hair, finding their way into the thick red curls. “Do you remember, when we moved to York? And I was _so_ upset that I couldn’t get that dish I liked from France anymore?”

“Hmmm. You kept threatening to leave.” Crowley turned, pressing the top of his head into those fingers, the side of his face into the curve of that stomach. Those fingers in his hair felt so good, every time. “All because you wanted your…I don’t remember, roast pheasant? It was six hundred years ago now.”

“It was the spices, mainly. Couldn’t get them that far north, not the very good ones. And you spent a _decade_ building up the trading infrastructure back to the mainland, until the markets had everything I could ask for.”

This time, Crowley didn’t try to fight the smile that slid across his face. “Whatever my angel wants, he gets.”

“Crowley, you made that settlement into a major trading power. It’s still a rather formidable city today.”

“Thanks to the Viking invasion.” But Crowley found himself sitting up, moving to place his arm around Aziraphale’s waist. “I suppose I helped a little.”

“A little.” Aziraphale brushed their lips softly together. “And that showed me something. That even though you say you don’t care, you do.”

“Slander.”

“You _do._ About more than just me, I can’t take credit for everything you did there.”

“Some of it was for me.” His fingers swept up Aziraphale’s spine, sending shivers through them both. “And yeah, for the humans, too. There’s a lot of fun things in the world, not fair they couldn’t partake.”

“And you showed me that when you bring yourself to make an effort, oh, the things you can accomplish. You’re a genius, Crowley. Just with a…very select skill set.”

“Oh, a genius, am I?” Crowley rubbed the point of his nose up and down the length of Aziraphale’s, lips catching against each other again and again. He pulled his glasses off. “I can think of another skill that I’m quite talented at.”

Aziraphale gasped happily, cradling Crowley’s face, running a thumb under his eye. “Oh, you are lovely.”

“Shut up.”

“No, you are.   
_Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;  
their beauty shakes me who was once serene;   
straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. **[2]**_   
You are glorious, Crowley. Never doubt that.”

\--

_Five years, eight months ago_

Crowley woke to the sound of five pairs of feet crossing the stone floor. It was the only warning he had.

His eyes flew open and he twisted back, as if to hide behind his own arm, feet scrambling. Shoftiel, Sandalphon, two others he didn’t recognize, and Gabriel.

There was really only one reason he ever got visitors.

Someone was angry.

“Chain him up,” Gabriel said from the back, like a film director. “Both arms on the wall. Do we have more powerful manacles?”

“That’s easily done.” Shoftiel waved a hand. Suddenly the cuff around his right wrist burned, as if it were on fire.

Two of the angels grabbed him, forcing him back against the wall as he struggled. Another manacle appeared and snapped around his left wrist, just as flaming as the first, and they pulled tight, lifting him off the ground, stretching him across the wall.

“Not so tight he can’t breathe,” Gabriel said, and the chains loosened just enough for Crowley’s feet to touch the floor. “Good. Begin.”

They started with fists, driving into his stomach, his ribs, his face. Something tore in him, early on, and Crowley coughed up a mouthful of tarry black blood. He tried to spit it at Sandalphon, which only made the angels angrier. Someone’s hands grabbed him, and pulled him against the chains, until he was sure he was about to come apart entirely.

Crowley growled, he sobbed, tears streaming down his face, but he clenched his teeth, biting back any louder cries.

Which, of course, was what they were there for. “He’s not screaming,” Gabriel said. “Why isn’t he screaming?”

“I believe he’s becoming used to our interrogation methods,” Shoftiel explained. “He’s experienced very little else for almost two years. He may even be starting to enjoy it.”

“Demons,” Gabriel growled, rummaging around on the table. “Disgusting creatures. Do you have anything new?”

From somewhere, they produced a foul-smelling bucket, somehow bubbling and steaming despite the lack of heat in the room. Shoftiel stepped quickly across the floor and doused Crowley – with boiling sulfur.

It ate into him, like his flesh was melting off, everywhere at once. He couldn’t distract himself – nowhere didn’t _hurt –_

And he threw back his head, screaming.

“Excellent. Get more of that.”

“Why?” Crowley finally managed. “Why do you _hate_ me?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Gabriel said, as the four angels produced more and more buckets from nowhere. “I don’t hate you. I barely even think about you. Lay him on the table. It’ll make it easier to get his face.”

\--

_Four hundred seventeen years ago_

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Crowley asked, leaning over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Hmmm, are you just going to comment on how ‘hot’ I am?”

“It would be better than half these.” He tugged the book out of Aziraphale’s hand. “Like the one where he says her breasts are dun. Women like being told they have wiry hair, too, right?” He flipped through the pages. “Or all these one where he tells they boy to settle down, get married, and have a son as attractive as he is. _Weird_ subject for a love poem.”

“I was reading that, you know.”

“More inspiration? Learning how they think? It’s been over five and a half millennia, if you haven’t figured humans out yet, it’s because they don’t make sense.”

“Oh, stop it!” But there was no anger in his voice. “Perhaps I’m trying to improve my mind? Even a being such as myself needs to find new and interesting challenges. Or perhaps I’m reading for pleasure?”

“Not sure how it’s pleasurable. They aren’t even _funny.”_

“Come along, dear, even you must admit the lines are pleasing, even if the sentiment is something you can’t understand.”

The moment the words were out, Aziraphale’s eyes went wide and pained. “No,” he whispered when the silence had stretched on too long. “I didn’t mean…”

Crowley looked away, pushing his glasses further up his face, closer to his eyes.

_“As an unperfect actor on the stage,”_ he murmured, feeling the first flash of pain in his chest.  
 _“Who with his fear is put beside his part,  
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,  
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;  
So I for fear of…trust…forget to say…” **[3]**_

It was as far as he could go. The words seemed to burn up his throat like acid, cut him inside like blades, drain him, leave the world dim and trembling and cold.

Cold except for the hand that found his, holding tight as a lifeline. _“O, learn to read what silent love hath writ,”_ Aziraphale whispered. _“To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.”_

\--

_Four years ago_

Crowley sprawled on the floor of the cell. He had no choice. His body was mostly serpent, no legs, only one arm to remain in the manacle. Everything else was smooth black and red scales to his neck, humanoid head on top. Limbs, apparently, were for prisoners who answered questions.

“Why don’t we try something simpler?” Shoftiel held out his glasses, silver metal and black glass. “Why do you wear these? What are you trying to hide?”

“’M not.” Crowley cleared his throat. It was harsh. Years of screaming would do that. “Told you. They’re cool. Angels learned about cool yet?”

“I did hear you, but we both know it’s something more. Come now. If you tell me the truth, I’ll let you wear them for a little while. Won’t that feel nice?”

It would. It was almost enough to get him to give in.

“Truth. Fine. I…invented glasses. Year 41. Gotta wear them or I lose my trademark.”

Shoftiel’s fist slammed into his cheekbone with a crunch, throwing him to the side. Without any way to keep his balance, Crowley collapsed, remaining arm nearly jerking out of it socket, holy manacle flaring to burn his wrist even further. “What have I told you about _rudeness?”_

Shoftiel opened his hand to reveal pieces of metal and glass, shattered, letting them rain down all around the twisted black line that was Crowley. “I didn’t want it to have to come to this, Crawly,” the angel said, sounding almost sad. “But you really have been a most willful prisoner.” One last shift overcame his body; his arm vanished, the holy manacle moving to somewhere just below his throat, and Crowley’s head lengthened, stretching, until it was a serpent’s head again.

“For some reason,” Shoftiel said, speaking loudly and slowly so that Crowley could feel the words reverberate up his stomach, “you feel the need to hide what you are. Perhaps a little time facing your true self will put you in a better mood. This is what you are, Crawly. A serpent. A worm. And I’ve let you pretend otherwise long enough.”

His footsteps reverberated through Crowley’s skull as the snake lay on the floor, coiled in the shattered pieces of his own glasses.

\--

_Two hundred thirty-three years ago_

“Will you tell me something?” Aziraphale asked as they curled together in the bed in Paris. His blue eyes were distant with sleepy pleasure. “Why do you wear those glasses?” Soft fingers reached up to trace the side of Crowley’s face. “You are…so lovely without them.”

“Can’t exactly walk around pretending to be human like this, can I?”

“Other demons do.”

Crowley sighed, turning his face to press his lips into that palm. “I don’t know how to put it into words. I don’t like…being… _known.”_ He settled down, pulling Aziraphale into his arms. “Anything that anyone knows about you can be used against you. Has been. Hell’s very good at spotting weaknesses. Turning what you think is _yours_ into a weapon against you.”

“The glasses don’t stop that.”

“No,” Crowley admitted. “Probably don’t do anything at all. But they let me keep one thing back, keep anyone from fully knowing me. And that’s…sometimes that’s all the defense I have.”

“I see.” Aziraphale pulled closer, tucking his head under Crowley’s chin. “You take them off around me, though.”

“It…took some time,” Crowley admitted. “But I…I don’t mind, if it’s you. I want you to know me. I trust you.” Lips brushed at his throat, but he could tell the angel was almost asleep. Crowley held him until he drifted off.

\--

_Three years, two months ago_

The newcomer scrambled across the floor with his free hand, picking up the pieces of shattered glass and metal, dropping them in his lap, as if he could miracle them whole again. There was a desperation in his eyes.

“Don’t bother,” Crowley said, shifting against the wall. At least he had limbs today. “He’ll fix them in a day or two.”

“But—” The newcomer had let his entire façade drop. Had Crowley ever been that bad at this? “He said…”

“Doesn’t matter what he said. He’s broken mine at least ten times.” Never really stopped hurting. “There’s only a few things he can take away from us. So he has to give them back eventually.”

The newcomer relaxed, slightly. Crowley could hear the clink of his manacled arm, at least, letting some of the tension out.

“He wants to know why we wear them. Don’t tell him. It’s one of the few things he doesn’t know.”

“You told him that much? How long has he had you?”

“Since before the Apocalypse started. How bad is it out there?”

“Bad.”

“Mh.” Crowley stretched his leg, trying to shift to a position that wasn’t sore. “The angel told them. Everything. Secrets. Things I whispered in the dark. They use it all.”

“Did…did they torture him, too?”

_Hush dear. Don’t struggle. This is for the best…_

“Don’t know. Maybe he was always spying for them.”

“No,” the newcomer said, with a conviction Crowley hadn’t felt in years. “He couldn’t be. Not if he’s anything like mine.”

“Might not be,” Crowley reminded him. “Don’t know how this works. But…he knew. Why I wear the glasses. Told them everything else. Not that.” He pressed the back of his head against the wall. “Gotta mean something, right?”

There was a long moment of silence, before the newcomer said, “Not much hope in that.”

“He was always better at hope than me.”

They sat for at least an hour before Crowley spoke again.

“Tell me about the angel.”

[1] Ancient Egyptian poem, 1300 BC

[2] From Chaucer’s “Rondel of Merciless Beauty”

[3] Shakespeare’s 23rd Sonnet. References are also made to the 18th, the 130th, and to a theme repeated in sonnets 1-17. They were published in 1609, when this scene takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you! I hope you enjoyed at least portions of this.
> 
> Two more poetry mentions are in order:   
> Crowley's mood in the "Mongols" scene was inspired by Walther von der Vogelweide's "A Mournful One Am I" but I ultimately decided having him quote the poem was a bit too melodramatic even for Crowley. It is, however, very appropriate for him. (Big thanks to all the Do It With Style Discord writers for helping me brainstorm that scene)
> 
> Crowley's comments about the glasses was inspired by one of my favorite sonnets, Edna St Vincent Millay's "Bluebeard" (Yet this alone out of my life I kept/Unto myself, lest any know me quite), though the poem itself is from 1917.
> 
> I don't know if this in any way helps to make Crowley's situation better. More will be revealed in the next section...


	21. Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardian of Humanity makes a deal with Heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. This has been a long time coming. Here is *most of* AU Aziraphale's motivation.
> 
> CW for torture/violence when we check in on Crowley. And for some language. And for Gabriel's stupid, stupid face.

_Ten years ago_

Aziraphale stood just outside Gabriel’s glass-walled office. The Archangel had seen him, of course, he saw _everything._ That was the point. He could certainly see Aziraphale, standing out here with his final report.

It was enormous. Typewritten. That was a special case, very special; he had always written his reports by hand. But he needed to be sure that every word was clear, that there were no misunderstandings. Also, it would have been rather a lot of ink.

Gabriel finally met his eyes and waved him in.

It was time.

Trying to control the trembling in his heart, Aziraphale stepped through the door, into the brightly-lit office. He should probably smile, but that seemed to be asking too much.

“Ah, Aziraphale. How go the preparations? Only a few more years!” He smiled, angelic and benign, and it hurt. This was where Aziraphale was supposed to be, surely, every _moment_ of his time on earth had been a mistake! He should burn this report to ashes and beg to be allowed…

He let the emotion pass. He’d thought about this very hard. He’d made his decision.

He placed the report on Gabriel’s desk. It was over eight hundred pages, clothbound, with a tan cover.

Then Aziraphale stepped back, letting out his breath. No going back now.

“What is this?” Gabriel spun the book, frowning at it distastefully. “I’ve asked you before not to use such…unusual materials for your reports.”

“This seemed fitting.”

“Are these the battle plans I asked for?” He lifted the cover with one finger, peering at the pages inside. “I’m no expert, Aziraphale, but I _thought_ maps would involve pictures, not words.”

“It is not. This is my…confession.” Aziraphale clasped and twisted his hands behind his back.

Gabriel let the cover fall, standing up. He towered over Aziraphale. The light in his eyes had turned to something dark and terrifying. “Confessions are for humans raised with too much guilt. Not angels.”

“I…have a very guilty conscience. I cannot go forward in our plans for the end times without coming clean.” He let his eyes fall to the book, trying to find the courage to go on. “I have written out my sins in great detail. This should help you to decide my punishment without needless delay.”

“And you’re just going to stand there while I… _read…_ all of this?”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “I…suppose I didn’t think that part through.”

“Just give me the highlights,” Gabriel snapped, sitting back down in his chair, pushing the book away.

“Highlights. Yes.” Aziraphale’s mind raced, trying to find the right words. “For the last…two thousand years, give or take…I have been in a…a relationship with the demon Crowley.”

A long silence. “And what _precisely_ was the nature of this relationship?”

“It’s all in…” he met the forbidding look in Gabriel’s eyes, then turned away. “Yes. Ah. It was many things. We had a…professional Arrangement. Er. An emotional one. A…a physical one.”

“Physical.” Gabriel stood again, slamming his hands on the table. “You are an _angel,_ Aziraphale. Are you telling me you let a demon _violate_ you?”

Clenching his fists, Aziraphale tried again to meet those eyes, but he could see the weight of his depravity in them. “It was mutual. _Everything_ we did was mutual.”

“How many times?”

“I…” Aziraphale blinked considering. “Well, I rather lost count, but I put as many into the report as I could recall.”

Gabriel’s mouth dropped in horror. He pulled the book towards him and flipped to a page at random. “It was on this occasion that I discovered Crowley has the most delightfully sensitive area at the base of his throat, and when I…ugh…” He turned to a different page. “As we sat on the cliffs overlooking the ships gathered in the Bay of Biscay, Crowley asked me if I thought the English would defeat them. Feeling great pride for the island where I have made my home, I told Crowley that the English could triumph over any number of ships. He asked if I wanted to put a wager on it. I told him that if the Spanish won he could…ugh…but if the English won, I would…I…” Gabriel turned the page, and then the next one. “And Crowley asked me to prove I could actually… _why would you think I would want to read any of this?”_

“I have always suspected that in between our bouts of lovemaking that night, Crowley slipped out and miracled up the storms that delayed the Armada. Which was not very sporting of him, he should have simply admitted defeat.”

“Aziraphale, I don’t want to know – wait, wasn’t the Spanish Armada one of ours?”

“It was. I _rather_ got caught up in the heat of the moment. Though I do recall I told you that my efforts had been thwarted by Hell’s agent on Earth, and that I had already begun making him pay. That’s all detailed in the next bit.”

“This…” Gabriel’s face took on an expression that made Aziraphale’s spine tingle with fear and shame. “This disgusting display…I’ve never seen anything like this…”

Here it came. Would Gabriel make him Fall immediately, or would it require some sort of council? Did it hurt, apart from the pool of sulfur? Would he feel his angelic nature ripped away?

He should have asked Crowley these questions centuries ago. Aziraphale braced himself and waited.

“Get out of my sight. I need to decide what to do with you.”

Aziraphale looked at the door behind him. “But…surely I…”

“Get _out!”_

\--

_Nine years, six months ago_

Customers wandered through Aziraphale’s shop. He didn’t even have the energy to follow them. He’d sold four books in the last month, too distressed to even think of preventing it.

There had been no word from Gabriel.

Could they make him Fall at any time? Or did he need to be present in Heaven for it to happen? Would God be there personally? That would surely be enough to break his resolve.

He knew he would wind up in Hell. That much he was certain of. Would the demons be told he was coming? Who would be waiting to receive him?

Aziraphale sold another copy of _Persuasion._ Not that it mattered.

\--

_Nine years, three months ago_

Aziraphale stood in Gabriel’s office again. The Archangel gave him his full attention this time, arms crossed, face hard, the book sitting on the desk beside him. The waiting, the endless waiting, had worn Aziraphale down, but he rallied himself as best he could. He would face this, on his feet, ready for whatever came.

“Have you…decided?”

“Don’t speak, Aziraphale. I’m still _very_ unhappy with you. The amount of detail that went into this report was…entirely unnecessary. In fact, that’s what tipped me off as to your deception.”

“My…”

“I said don’t speak. Ugh. You know, I could hear your voice the whole time I was reading this and it _did not help_ in _any_ way. I just…” He shuddered. “But. It was around the fifth time you described that…that noise the demon made when you did that…thing to his ear…”

“It’s called kissing, Gabriel.”

“What did I say?” He glared until Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back and nodded quietly. “Right. Anyway, I realized this wasn’t just some attempt to clear your conscience. Your exceedingly _filthy_ conscience. You were trying to get a reaction out of me.”

Aziraphale shook his head, trying to object, but he couldn’t have spoken even if Gabriel had allowed it.

“Yes! And what reaction could you be trying to get? What would be the result if I actually lost my temper? Then I realized.” He picked up the thick book in both hands. “This isn’t just a four hundred-thousand-word smut fest. In between all that… _that,_ you kept going on and _on_ about how clever and kind this demon is, how he actually _cares_ for humanity, how he puts up a show of nihilism because he can’t stand to see them suffer – and, somehow, all that was _worse.”_ He slammed the book down on his desk. “So. Aziraphale. Does the demon Crowley _know_ you’re in love with him?”

He went very still.

“Yes. I expect you to answer that.”

“I. No, I’m not…everything we did was just to, to, to pass the time in as indulgent a way as possible, and, and yes, I partook in, I’m fairly certain, _all_ the major sins. I was merely trying to document – but love, no, that, that was never—”

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel cringed. “Don’t make me read all this and then _lie_ to me about it.”

Aziraphale trembled. He brought his hands forward, tugging at the wrists of his jacket, twisting his cufflinks. He’d been prepared to answer any question, but not this.

“I…thought he suspected. I thought we both hinted at it. But. In Paris, I tried to make him aware of my feelings and…he left.” He could still hear Crowley’s whisper, _I’ll see you in London. In_ our _bookshop._ Aziraphale had waited, and waited, with growing despair, until he realized Crowley was simply never going to come. “So, either he has no idea, or he does and…doesn’t care.”

“And doesn’t know that you’re attempting to Fall for him right now.” Aziraphale deflated. “Yes, it was _absolutely_ that obvious. Ugh.” Gabriel walked closer, hands folded in front of him, almost pleading. “Why? That’s the thing I can’t figure out. This has to be the most elaborate attempted defection in history.”

“I’m not defecting,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I don’t – I’m not going to reveal any of Heaven’s plans, even if they, they lock me up and torture me for the length of the war, which I rather suspect they will. But. Afterwards…”

“Afterwards, they lose. And all those who survive will be locked in the dark for eternity.” He said it with perfect confidence, as if it had already happened. Had Aziraphale ever been so certain? “Why would you want to be on the losing side?”

“Because, win or lose…I don’t want to spend eternity without him. And if the only place that will take us both is the darkest pits of perdition…that’s where I shall go.”

“And your duties?”

“I know.” He bowed his head. “Choosing between humanity and Crowley is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I know the war will be difficult, and they deserve their Guardian, but…Crowley will be alone. And…if I can’t have both…if I must choose….”

“And if you didn’t have to choose?”

“That’s impossible,” Aziraphale started. “Heaven would have to agree to…” He glanced up to find Gabriel watching him, lips pursed, eyebrows raised.

Was the Archangel saying what Aziraphale thought he was saying? For the first time in nearly a year, the fear faded, being replaced with something rather like hope. “You…you mean you’d actually…”

“Aziraphale, you’re one of our best agents, dalliances notwithstanding.” He waved a hand back towards the book. “We’re not going to let you go. Not when you have so much to do for us.”

“Would…would Crowley…Ascend?” It was more than he could have hoped for.

Gabriel tipped his head, uncertain. “Hmmm, it’s never been done. It would take more than just my recommendation, and he would need to be an _exemplary_ prisoner during the war.”

“P – prisoner?”

“Well, on paper. Not sure how else we could arrange it. Plus there’s security to think of – our secrets _and_ his safety. A cell with a warden would probably be best. I don’t know how _comfortable_ it would be, but you were willing to spend the war at the mercies of Hell’s torturers. I can’t imagine this would be _worse.”_

“I…” It was suddenly difficult to think rationally. “I could…I don’t know how to contact him. He might not even be in London anymore…I doubt he would trust me enough to…”

“Look I’m not going to… _thank_ you for my pornography, but it has given me some insight into his mind. I think he’ll try to get in touch with you again. Let me know as soon as it happens, and we’ll make a plan.”

“Could I visit him?” He had so much to say, and for a moment the hope wiped out every other possibility from his mind. He was ready to agree to anything, just to have Crowley in his arms again.

But Gabriel huffed out a breath. “I don’t want to promise anything, Aziraphale. You’re going to be _very_ busy during the war. But I think we can arrange something. Video calls? I don’t know. But this is the best offer you’re going to get. Keep working with us during the war – do your duty – and afterwards, eternity with your…” He waved his hand vaguely over the book. “…your demon. Preferably _very_ far from me.”

There was a lot to consider. Aziraphale pulled on the fabric of his waistcoat, straightened his lapels, and finally adjusted his bow tie. “I…yes, I will keep you informed. And you promise he will not be harmed while I lead my platoon?”

“Platoon?” Gabriel grinned. “I would not be going out of my way like this for a mere platoon leader. Aziraphale, your reports over the last six thousand years have inspired a whole new project. Let me tell you about New Eden.”

\--

_Seven years, three months ago_

Aziraphale stood at the drafting table, surrounded by architects and blueprints. “No, this is all wrong. The _scale_ of it! The original Garden only held one Man and one Woman. We can’t simply reuse the same design. New Eden will hold billions. It would have to be the size of…Australia, at least! Where are Milkiel’s plans?”

Another set of drawings moved across the table. “Yes, _this_ is what we’ll need.” He nodded to Milkiel, who beamed proudly. “It’s a _start_ at least, but more rivers – here, and here, and we can’t just ignore the deserts, or the swamps. I believe if we…”

“Another change of plans,” Hizkiel appeared suddenly behind Aziraphale, holding a sealed message tube. “The number of Elect has been reduced. Gabriel has suggested a few alterations.” Aziraphale unrolled the slip of paper inside and took it in with a glance, eyes going wide.

The Archangels had gathered in Gabriel’s office, a serious council of blazing wings and stern faces. Ordinarily, Aziraphale would be too terrified to enter. Never mind the power the Archangels had over him and over the world – interrupting was just _rude._

But this was not something that could wait.

“Gabriel, you can’t—” He took a deep breath as hundreds of eyes turned on him, burning out from the flaming wings of the Archangels. “I’m – I’m so sorry to intrude, most…most Holy Archangel Gabriel, on your matters of great import but… _a quarter of a million people?”_

“Aziraphale.” His wings snapped back into place, leaving only the human-shaped body to tower over the Principality of Earth. “Are you questioning our wisdom?”

“I – I – I think there must be some mistake, surely, I was told the Elect would be all of the humans found worthy, and – and that the children…”

He saw the way Gabriel glanced at the other Archangels, rolling his eyes. “Let me handle this.” His hand fell heavily on Aziraphale’s shoulder as he steered them both out of the office and back into the main halls of Heaven.

“Aziraphale. Stop. How many humans did you think we were going to save? According to the prophecies – _your prophecies_ which you bring up in _every planning session_ – barely a third of the humans will even make it to the final year. That includes the ones we take. We only ever planned for those who are _worthy.”_

“But…there are two billion children in the world right now…I thought, if we started early…”

“No. Obviously not. That just isn’t feasible. Look. It’s like the Ark.” Gabriel spread his hands. “You remember the Ark? We had to send a message. We tested, and how many did we find worthy? Hm? One family. Same with Sodom and Gomorrah. One family, and the mother didn’t even make it.”

“But…this is the end of the world. You can’t be suggesting…”

“A quarter of a million people is extremely generous. That’s at least _ten_ families per city! And, yes, we can prioritize children, they’re easier to keep in line, anyway.”

Aziraphale lowered his head, struggling to handle the shift, to think clearly. “So…this means…I suppose this means something of a redesign is in order.”

“Yes! Good thinking. Now. I have business to attend to. You take care of that, and I’ll follow up at the end of the day. Keep up the good work!” With another shoulder clap – hard enough to hurt – Gabriel headed back into his office.

Aziraphale’s feet led him to the planning table, to the team of engineers and architects he had been assigned, and stared at the plans for New Eden, glowing, shining cities that would provide everything for the humans, with rolling stretches of countryside in between. Slowly, he crumpled them up.

He stared at the blank piece of paper before him, then reached for a pencil. “Alright. New plan. I’ll make alterations as we go, but we’ll start with a shape like _this…”_

\--

_Seven years, six weeks ago_

Aziraphale paced outside the heavy door that he’d never seen in Heaven’s halls before. It didn’t match the aesthetic.

It would be fine. Once he could get in and _explain_ to Crowley, he would understand. This was really best for everyone. Even better, with Crowley’s information, surely, they could _halve_ the death count, at least, maybe more. He just needed five minutes.

It had been six hours.

Suddenly, the door opened. He rushed forward, as Shoftiel stepped out, pulling it shut behind him. “How is he? Is he comfortable? Did he ask for me?” Aziraphale took a breath, smoothing his lapels. “I mean, I assume our guest is awake?”

“He was,” Shoftiel said with a smile, partly hidden behind his thick beard. “But he’s rather tired, so I think he’ll sleep a bit longer.” His eyes sparkled, just a little. “He isn’t being very cooperative yet, or polite, but I think we can reach an understanding.”

“Oh, oh, thank you. Listen, I know he can be a – a little _prickly,_ but just let me speak to him alone, and I can have all this sorted out.”

“I don’t think he wants to see you.” He tested the door and started walking away.

“I – I do understand that. But, please, this is – I know how to handle him, I can make him talk.” He reached out a hand and rested it on Shoftiel’s arm. “Just give me a few minutes and…”

There was a spot of blood on Shoftiel’s sleeve. _Demonic_ blood.

“What did you…what did you do?”

“I told you, he wasn’t being very cooperative.”

A surge of rage rose in Aziraphale’s chest, boiling up through his mind. Power rolled off him in waves. _“What did you do?”_

“I gave him a little encouragement is all.” Shoftiel might not have even noticed the storm of celestial energy brewing around them. “Please, Principality, this is my job. Let me work.”

“I need to see Crowley!” Aziraphale grabbed the other angel by the collar and threw him against the wall. _“This instant!”_

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel appeared at the end of the hall. All the power Aziraphale had gathered dissipated in a breath. “There’s no need for you to lose your temper like this. What happened?”

“This – this—” he made himself calm down. “This _bad angel_ has done…something…to Crowley. I demand to see him right now.”

“Demand?” Gabriel glanced at Shoftiel. “I assume this was necessary?”

“He’s very unwilling to speak at the moment. I have not caused him any permanent harm, of course, but you do need to _earn_ a demon’s respect, and their methods can be quite brutal. One he’s ready to cooperate, I can lighten up.” He waved a hand towards the Principality. “He also declined my offer to have Aziraphale visit.”

“Well. That all seems reasonable.” Gabriel clapped his hands and smiled. “Back to work, then. World isn’t going to end itself!”

“What? No!” Aziraphale clenched his fists. “This isn’t what I agreed to. You…you said he would be safe…”

“If he cooperates. Which he isn’t. Yet.” He patted Aziraphale on the shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. And I’ll check in and make sure there’s nothing excessive going on.”

“Excessive?” Aziraphale felt very ill, in a way he never had in his life. “I don’t…Surely you must see that any amount of violence is excessive, he’s our prisoner. We’re the _good guys.”_

“Well, yes, he’s a _prisoner._ We do what we must to ensure he behaves. Rules of War.” One last smile from Gabriel. “Now let’s get you back to work. Only a few weeks left! Have you chosen a location for your Garden yet?”

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder towards the door one last time. Crowley was clever. He wasn’t very loyal to Hell. Surely, he would understand that a little information was all he needed to keep himself safe. He would have to trust that Crowley knew how to protect himself.

Meanwhile, there was a job that only Aziraphale could do. _It’ll be fine. This is for the best…_

\--

_Seven years ago_

Somewhere over Megiddo, the war had started. Abaddon, general of Hell, led the Demonic Legions against Michael’s Hosts of Heaven. Human bombs flew, and fell.

But it was just another war in a distant land. In the English countryside, it hadn’t even registered yet.

Aziraphale walked the fields with his survey crew.

“Then the wall will come around this way, curving like this and go straight for a bit. Hmmm. That tree is in the way.”

“Is it?” One of the surveyors asked. “We can just cut it down. We’re already passing through dozens—”

“No-no-no!” Aziraphale waved his hands. “This tree, really it’s a very good one. For climbing and whatnot. The children will appreciate it. We want to go around. Starting here we want to curve out like this, and then back in again over there.”

The surveyors looked at the altered map. “That seems…” one started “…unnecessary. Why so much space around it?”

“It’s a climbing tree. The children need room to – run or play conkers or whatever it is children do these days.”

“We could just move the tree,” the other surveyor pointed out. “Or plant a new one.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Am I being a bit distracted? I’m terribly sorry.” He started rolling the plans up. “There have been so many changes in the past few years, I’m just tying to preserve some of my original…well, never mind. I’ve noted down everything else we discussed. Just need to get Gabriel to sign off on—”

A buzz in his pocket; Aziraphale pulled out the flat device Heaven used for communication. He did miss the days when he was less…tethered, but his heart leapt when he saw it was Gabriel.

“Yes? Hello? Is it Crowley? Has he asked to see me? Shoftiel said he’d tell him, days ago—”

“No, Aziraphale, this isn’t about setting up your…tryst. Get to London. Immediately.”

The city of London was surrounded by a brilliant glow, hotter than a sun, colder than the vacuum of space. Walls of sunlight-colored glow encircled the city in an uneven loop, 15 or 20 miles out.

The energy that came off it wasn’t holy. It wasn’t demonic. It was something else entirely.

Aziraphale placed a hand against it. A wall of power forming a physical barrier. Nothing could cross that.

“Thizz izz not what we were told!” Beelzebub shouted angrily. “The field reportzz zzaid it would be the dread szigil Odegra.” Ze slammed a fist into the light. “Hell izz getting no power off thisz! It doesz nothing!”

“Nor is Heaven,” Gabriel assured zir. “I don’t know how this could – ah, Aziraphale. What is going on here?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said, as evenly as he could.

“Yes, but you—” Gabriel shot a look at Beelzebub and pulled Aziraphale further aside. “You lived in this city for two centuries. You had an – an _understanding_ with Hell’s top field agent. Are you telling me you never noticed? Never heard a _word_ about this project?”

“You know perfectly well I hadn’t spoken to Crowley in two hundred twenty-six years!”

“Look at this,” Gabriel blustered on, pointing at the wall of force. “Just look! This is supposed to be the sigil Odegra. We _planned_ for that, we had ways to counter it, and the strength it would give the Opposition. We had a schedule! How are we supposed to keep to it if we can’t get near this, huh? All of the major cities are scheduled to be destroyed within a month. I need a solution, now.”

“What – no, no one told me about that!”

“Change of plans,” The Archangel waved off his objections. “We’ll get you the paperwork soon. This is more urgent. What is it, and why can’t we get in?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. But New Eden isn’t ready yet, and you promised me, ten families—”

“That was an estimate! Move with the times, Aziraphale. We’ll find another way to get your hundred and twenty-five thousand souls.”

“Hundred and – that’s _half—”_

“Aziraphale! Focus.” He slapped a hand against the wall of force. It made no more difference than a child hitting a stone wall. “I was pulled away from Megiddo for this. Get me answers.”

Aziraphale stared at the wall running outside the M25. A few cars had collided with the solid barrier, which cut infinitely up into the sky and down below the earth, slicing through the flyovers and underpasses. The humans had learned quickly. All exits out of London were closed, small crowds milling around, hands pressed to the barrier. Behind them, green fields stretched to the suburbs, and beyond that rose the city itself.

Nearly ten million people lived inside the M25. Ten million people Heaven couldn’t reach, couldn’t save.

“Gabriel. I have no idea what this could be.” He took a deep breath. “But I am certain Crowley is behind it. He as much as told me, the one time we spoke. And he would have designed it with a way to get himself out. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him.”

\--

Sandalphon slammed Crowley against the wall hard enough to crack his spine, but for the moment all he could do was laugh.

“None of you checked. Not _one_ of you ever checked. Those diacritics will get you every time.”

“Fine. You’ve had your laugh.” Gabriel smiled as if to show he knew what a joke looked like. “Tell me how to get in.”

“You don’t. No one does. No angels, no demons, no humans. The people of London are _safe_ from you bastards. Have your war elsewhere.”

Gabriel rubbed at his eye. “We had _plans._ This – this _delay_ is not what I want today. That city needs to be nuked, those souls need to be sent to their rewards and punishments, and Michael is supposed to be running the European warfront out of the ruins. She is not going to be happy.”

“Ooh, I’ve never had an angel be mad at me before.” Sandalphon’s fist drove into his stomach again, but he didn’t care. It had worked. His plan had bloody _worked._

“You realize,” Gabriel said, bearing down on him, “that you’ve left ten _million_ people to die in there?”

“You were going to kill them!”

“No, the _war_ was going to kill them. But at least it would have been quick. Now they’re going to starve to death, slowly, as their supplies run out. Probably get diseases, contaminated water, and they’ll tear each other apart over what supplies they have. You’ve accomplished nothing.”

“I ruined your day. Seems good enough for me.”

Gabriel grabbed a bottle of holy water off the table and charged Crowley. The demon barely had time to brace himself before Gabriel’s hand slammed his face back into the wall. “Give me one reason not to, because I have had _enough_ of your attitude!”

“Go ahead!” Crowley closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and waited.

And kept waiting.

Gabriel and Sandalphon stepped back, letting him drop to the floor.

“No,” Gabriel said. “Aziraphale was certain you knew a way through. We’ll find it.”

When they left, hours later, Crowley was battered and bleeding on the floor.

But London was still safe.

\--

_Six years, two months ago_

Aziraphale led Gabriel proudly through the Garden of New Eden. The inner Garden, that is, which was just a temporary arrangement.

“The outer wall will be rather more extensive. We need to accommodate the territories of various animals, make sure all the biomes are represented, and of course there will be unforeseen needs as we build the villages.”

“Didn’t think we needed villages. The original Eden didn’t have them.”

“Well, yes, but the original humans didn’t know any other life.” He saw Gabriel’s expression, and quickly changed tactics. ”Ah, I’m sure it’s just temporary, until they fully settle, but I want to make them as comfortable as possible in the meantime. Of course, sedentary humans will take up less space, so if you really want no dwellings, that probably means _more_ extensions…”

“Aziraphale, don’t bore me with the architectural details, I have a war to worry about.” He glanced at his communication device, then held up a map of the world. “Our nuclear exchange did _not_ go off as planned, so there are too many surviving cities. Humans are already making they way through our battlefields to try and reach them, and how are we supposed to handle that? Hm? Can’t let the demons have them.”

“No, of course not! So – you’ll be happy to hear that building the Inner Garden has allowed me to begin collecting the Elect already. Here – just up ahead.”

He gestured to a small collection of white cottages. Several families stood outside, parents clutching children, looking terrified. “They, ah, they are still acclimating, of course—”

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him away. “Who are these people?”

“I – I – I’m sorry, I used your list…”

“This list?” Gabriel pulled it up on his communication device. “I see three names checked off. Three of these people should be here. There’s at least twenty.”

“W – well, yes, but, I realized the names were children. They need caretakers.”

Gabriel looked at him, confused. “They have you.”

“I, yes, and thank you for entrusting me…but I thought…well wouldn’t it be better to keep the families together? It will add up a little, but I’ve been running some numbers…”

“Hey, hey…” Gabriel held up his hands. “What is all this? You got this position because you _trust_ the system. That’s all I need you to do. Just…receive you orders and do as you’re told. Don’t complicate things.”

Aziraphale reached for his bow tie, but there wasn’t one on his military uniform. He tugged at the jacket instead. “I really…I do trust the system, Gabriel. But. You must understand that humans are more…more complicated than they appear on paper. I have six thousand years of observing them, and, well, I had to make a judgement call. This is…I wish to at least try. As an experiment. Perhaps you will prove right in the end, but I want to see for myself.” He nodded. Gabriel hadn’t said anything. This wasn’t so bad, after all, except for the knot in his stomach, the way his lungs seemed to be filled with glass. “I will, of course, keep you updated on their progress.”

Gabriel looked at Aziraphale for a long moment. “I’ll tell you what. Let me think this over, ask the other Archangels, and I’ll get back to you tonight, alright?”

The tension Aziraphale had been feeling since his first retrieval started to dissolve. “Oh, oh thank you. Yes. That is – yes, please. Take your time and think it over.”

“I will. Look for a message tonight.”

\--

Aziraphale took the message in what he was coming to think of as his office. It wasn’t an office, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was private – no one knew the spot but him – and it had a lovely view of a field with a tree in the middle of it.

With a little difficulty – modern technology still made him uncomfortable – Aziraphale managed to get the video to start playing.

Gabriel sat at his desk, smiling at an unseen camera. “Hello, Aziraphale. I’ve talked your proposal over with a few of the others. This is what we think.”

The camera cut to Crowley, chained to a wall, screaming.

There was already one knife buried in his ribs, and an angel was cutting into him again and again with another. Crowley screamed, over and over, on and on, jerking his arms against the chains that held him, kicking his feet against the wall.

It went on for two minutes.

Then the camera cut back to Gabriel, still smiling in his office. “Get rid of the extra humans. And next time your orders come in…don’t question them. At all.”

The device tumbled from Aziraphale’s fingers.

In six thousand years, he’d never vomited before.

Aziraphale made it most of the way to a nearby bush before his corporation took over, and he violently heaved out what felt like every meal he’d ever eaten.

When he was done – when he was empty – he collapsed on the grass, sobbing.

 _“Crowley!”_ He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from screaming again, but the tears poured from his eyes.

It was so much worse than he could have imagined.

His clothes had been torn, decayed, clearly ripped apart and never replaced, his shirt little more than a collection of rags hanging from his shoulders. His hair that he always took such pride in, was long and matted and filthy, portions of it torn out. The blood, the feathers, the scars…

And the twisted, horrible look on his face…

“Crowley…I’m…I’m sorry…” Even to himself, the words sounded weak, pointless. He clutched at his stomach, choking on tears. “I thought…I really thought…I’m a fool. I’m so sorry…”

The entire plan had been a gamble, right from the beginning. To save Crowley, to save everyone, Aziraphale had been willing to risk anything.

But the stakes were too high, the rules kept changing, and he no longer thought he could win. He was starting to think there was no winning.

From the sky above, thick with clouds that never parted, came the sound of Trumpets, bringing him orders. Where to send the unwanted humans. Where to go to retrieve the next batch, who to take, who to leave.

He didn’t need to let them take over his mind to know what the orders were. He could hold back, keep his mind intact, make decisions for himself.

But making decisions was what had gotten him into this mess. And just at the moment, he couldn’t stand to be around himself.

The orders washed over him, and his mind drifted away.

\--

_Five years, eight months ago_

“They’re loud,” Gabriel complained, looking over the crowd of humans.

“Yes, many of them are unhappy with the method of their arrival.” Aziraphale reached a hand towards one of the children, but she immediately scrambled away, screaming. “But in a little time, they will settle down. Already they have begun forming new families.”

Across the field, under a few trees carefully selected for the width of their branches and the cool shadows they cast, several teenagers sat with younger children in their laps, talking soothingly to them, making sure they ate.

Gabriel scowled. “What is that?”

“That? Er, dinner time?”

“No, that.” Gabriel stormed across the field, and the children scattered before him, vanishing into the sorts of hiding places only the very young can find. One of the teenagers didn’t move fast enough, and Gabriel caught her arm, spinning her back. “Right here. On her face. She’s one of _them.”_

Aziraphale looked at the Mark. It wasn’t hidden – they couldn’t really _be_ hidden, not to angels, certainly not when located on the chin like that.

“But, she’s also one of ours. Mariana was on the list you gave me. She’s one of the best residents of New Eden, one of the few that…that trust me, that help with the others.”

“Let go of me!” The girl twisted in his arm, kicking at the Archangel’s shin. “Let go, you horrible, pestilent wanker, you miserable—”

“I admit she has a bit of a temper, but…she was chosen for a _reason._ She belongs here.”

Gabriel grabbed her jaw to quiet her and glared at Aziraphale. “When they take the Mark, they give up our protection. It’s in the oath they take. We can’t have _damned souls_ in our new paradise, can we?”

“But…like many people, Mariana didn’t have a choice. She lived an exemplary life before, did so much to help others, and surely we can forgive—”

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel shoved her into his arms. “Get rid of her. Do not take any of the Marked, ever again. It really isn’t that difficult.”

“But…”

“And expect another message tonight.”

Aziraphale went cold, trembling. “No. No, you don’t have to…don’t do this…”

“I don’t want to have to be the bad guy here, Aziraphale. Just. Do your job _as ordered.”_

In a flash of light, Gabriel was gone.

“You…you won’t send me away, will you?” Mariana grabbed his arm. “Please. You said I could be safe here, you said you’d give me another chance! I did _everything_ you asked!”

“You did. But a Judgement has been made. And now you must go.”

She shoved him away. “You can’t just throw me out! Where the Hell am I supposed to go? The Marked won’t take me back, not after I’ve been here. If you put me out there _I will die.”_

“You’re…you’re very resourceful, my dear. I’m sure…you’ll find a way…”

“You _lying sack of shit!”_ All around them, faces turned, people emerged from where they hid every time the angels came close. There were hundreds of witnesses. “You call yourself our Guardian, you say you’ll protect us, but the world is _ending,_ people are _dying_ and all you do is sit here and redesign your fucking garden walls. Nothing you do is going to matter! Because this place is corrupt, and you are corrupt, and everything is—”

She vanished.

That night, Aziraphale curled up on the seat in his office, watching his communication device as Crowley screamed and twisted, chained to a table, boiling sulfur poured over him again and again. There was nothing Aziraphale could do, but watch, and suffer along with him, and cry.

“I don’t know what to do, my love,” he whispered. “I can’t help them. I can’t help you. I’m useless.”

On the screen, Crowley managed to catch his breath. “Fuck you, Gabriel!” He shouted. “Fuck all of you, fuck the angels, fuck every last one of—AAAAAAH!” Another wave of liquid over him.

\--

_Four days ago_

“I don’t know how we managed to get so many _troublemakers_ in New Eden,” Gabriel complained, walking away from the holding pen. _“All_ of them were on the lists?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “Exactly according to the Plan.” This was much easier if he didn’t think of anything but the Plan.

“Well. Once we send this bunch out into the world, make an example of them, the rest will fall into line.”

“Of course. You are wise, as always, Gabriel.” He nodded to one of his squads to begin delivering the humans to the pre-selected locations. “They will need to be replaced, of course.”

“Fine, yes, I’ll send an updated list tonight, along with your other message. Price of failure, you understand. Nothing personal.”

Hardly a flicker crossed Aziraphale’s face. “I understand. How else will I learn?”

“Excellent. See? Consistent discipline always brings obedience. The same will work for the humans.” He glanced at the rapidly emptying holding pen, then scowled at the wall beyond. “Is that an extension? Did I approve that?”

“Just a small one. There was an issue with the drainage in that corner, and we needed to take care of it while there was still land outside to co-opt. Do you need to see the overall plans? I have a report prepared—”

“No, it’s fine. Whatever. Just a few more days, right?”

“I expect we will be quite busy. I’ve already added several new angels to the retrieval squads.” He nodded to Ishliah, who was marching with her new unit.

“Perfect. Yes.” Gabriel took one last look around, distracted. “Oh, one more thing. We’ve had reports of a gang of hundreds of humans moving south…”

\--

_Two hours ago_

Aziraphale sat in his office, head leaning against the window, watching the video play again and again.

“What do you want? Just ask me a question, I’ll – AAAAH! Stop! Please, don’t – AAAAH!” Then, in the pause, “…Aziraphale…”

It looked like Crowley. It _sounded_ like Crowley, his voice at least.

But Crowley never asked why they were hurting him.

And Crowley had never once, not in seven years, called Aziraphale’s name.

The other Aziraphale had confirmed it. Somehow, this wasn’t his Crowley.

Which could only mean one thing.

You didn’t need a replacement if the original was still there.

Aziraphale opened the door and stepped out of his office, onto the narrow road. He’d let the road itself become overgrown, the grass in the field grow long, but the Bentley he used as a private room was still in perfect condition, paint shining, waiting for the demon who would never return.

Aziraphale shut the door and leaned on it, feeling the hot metal against his head. The sun was still bright, here in paradise, while the rest of the world fell apart, while Crowley’s stars fell from the sky.

What did it even matter anymore?

“I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered, leaning against the car as if it was Crowley’s chest, one last time. “I thought…I really believed…” But it was too late now. Crowley was gone, forever. “I hope you were defiant to the end.”

He stepped away from the car, wiping his eyes, and spread his wings wide, humming a perfect, clear note.

Fifteen angels appeared around him. His most trusted squad. His best agents.

“There’s been a change in plans,” he informed them. “Our final course has been moved up.” A soft murmur ran through the gathered angels. “I know. But time is short. Hit hard. Take everyone. And then…we breach London itself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading
> 
> This was was so tough I almost abandoned it halfway through, but I managed it.
> 
> I've tried to make Aziraphale's mix of clever planning and blatant naivete clear. There will be one final reveal where we find out the true depths of his original plan, but suffice to say he was outmaneuvered early because he genuinely believed Gabriel wouldn't be *that bad.* He's an *angel* after all.
> 
> (I don't know what the tag is for "Character A thinks Character B is dead but he's not." Perceived Character Death?)
> 
> I don't mean to leave you all on such a cliffhanger (Lies, I could have stopped at a much easier spot), but I will need a few days to get the next few sections together. I promise, there's an outline, and a happy ending ahead!
> 
> (Adding rather late: diacritics! These are marks made above and below letters to indicate a somewhat different pronunciation. Like á vs å vs a, if the characters are compatible. Basically, the sigil is Odegra with a few accent marks that completely change the meaning of the word.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated...


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